


One Second

by Rancid_Rat6186



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky needs seriously all of the hugs, Bucky wants everyone to leave him alone, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sorry for future stuff that's gonna happen, Steve Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve wants to save everyone, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, They're feeling too much, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-11-04 23:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 49,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11001282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rancid_Rat6186/pseuds/Rancid_Rat6186
Summary: "How are you supposed to feel like you can keep moving, keep breathing, when all it took was one second to completely destroy you? One second to completely shatter you?"-------------------------------------------Bucky is not doing okay. And he doesn't want to tell you about it.Steve really isn't doing okay, either. And he's just going to keep pretending he is.Steve just wants to save everyone.Bucky doesn't want to be saved.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, this is reposted, now as a Bucky/Steve story. 
> 
> Warning for throughout this entire story, for very, very heavy references about suicide. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

The late January Boston air threatened snow as Steve climbed onto the almost filled train car. He managed to find a window seat, lowering himself into the grooves of the bench seat. His backpack swung safely onto his lap. He didn't bother to remove his over worn brown jacket. He loosened the bulky knit scarf from his neck. His gray, slouchy knit hat hung warmly over his blond hair. He didn't bother with styling it today, and kept most of it hidden under the knit cables. 

As the train picked up pace, he held up his ticket to be punched by the man walking by. He softly smiled as the man's hand clicked the hole punch into the cardstock paper, handing it back to Steve. The man smiled back, wishing him a good day and continued down the aisle. He watched as the woman three rows up held up a handful of tickets for herself and the three small children climbing over the seats beside her. Looking away, Steve returned his gaze back to the passing life outside the window beside him. His headphones sung words he really didn't bother listening to. He, instead, let the melodies sway him with the dancing car. 

Time passed by quicker than he had expected, as the expected stop at West Haven Station in Conneticut came and went. He looked quickly over the faces of the new passengers, barely able to make out any specific details. But, then again, he wasn't really trying. He hugged at the backpack on his lap, letting his chin rest against the top. _Last time I'll have to make this trip, at least._

The train car moved eloquently and fiercely over the tracks, moving quicker and slower, knowing just what it needs to do. The fading sun painted the outer buildings of the city with a soft, inviting yellow hue. The reflections bounced back against his fading blue eyes. Over these past few years, the vibrancy of them dimmed away, and swirled with specks of green to break up what once were oceans to everything he used to be. The yellowing air electrified the green, hiding away what was left of any blue. 

The train squealed and pulled at the track beneath it as it slowed itself down, finally letting itself rest at Penn Station. The doors opened and everyone crowded off at once. Steve slowly rose up out of his seat, climbing off the train. The crowd from the trains had managed to reach the top of the staircase before he even stepped onto the first step, letting his footfalls hesitate, allowing a vast distance between himself and the rest of the world. 

The cold winter air stung at his cheeks before he stepped out from under the protection of the roof of the station. Night was finally settling in. He pulled his jacket closer to himself. The cool air felt good in his lungs, relishing in the way it made the muscle tense and seize in the frigid temperature, losing himself momentarily to the suffocating sensation of how his lungs had to work harder to contract in the harsher atmosphere of the outside winter weather. He let his head fall back, looking up to the darkening, star-less sky. The sidewalks held what was left of a busy city day, as the dwindling crowd made their way home. He wandered aimlessly, letting the softly lit building windows light his way to nowhere in particular. He wasn't entirely sure what time it was, or even the day. A sense of familiarity had led him down to the subway, pulling him onto the train towards Brooklyn. 

Of course it was Brooklyn. It would always be Brooklyn. That was his home. It was where he was meant to be. It was where he could do something that mattered. It was where he could try, night after night, to redeem himself, to, maybe, save his own mind from drowning in the ocean, too...

The subway car was sparesley filled with the last few stragglers of the night. He picked a middle seat, barely noticing anyone around him. His headphones hugged his ears, filling his chaotic mind with whoever's words. He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of the car rock him back and forth until his stop.

The doors open, filling the car with the usual subway smell. It never really bothered him. He dug his hands into his pockets, climbing the staircase to the street. 

The air was sharp again, cold and quiet. The streets and sidewalks echoed the winds blowing through them. He breathed deeply. He wasn't sure what it was about Brooklyn, now, that calmed his restless heart. He never really tried to figure it out either. The air in this part of the city soothed his broken soul, something he still doesn't think he deserves to feel. No. For what he had done, he doesn't deserve a single moment of forgotten bliss. He deserved only to feel the violent reminders of what he had done...or more so, what he hadn't done. 

Steve lifted his head back to the sky, where the yellowing streetlights kept the stars still hidden. How he wished one would just show itself. The stars had made him feel alive, once. They had given what little spark of fire within him enough flame to keep him burning. _Back when we used to pretend they could answer all of our wishes. Back when we were both so young and innocent, so naive. Back when you were still alive..._

Steve kicked the trash by his foot, watching it dance itself up and down in the winter winds. He was alone. Everyone was inside for the night, warming themselves away from the impending snow everyone had been talking about. He didn't mind the cold. He didn't mind the solitude. This was his favorite part of the day, when he could get himself lost, and no one would try to find him, not that there was really anyone left to even attempt to try and find him. The last person left to him in this world was...

He wasn't sure when it happened, or how long it took him to get there, but the salty ocean air filled his nose and lungs. He breathed in deeply. He wasn't really surprised, either. This was where he always ended up, after everyone else has gone off to bed. The ocean had always set his soul free. But, nowadays, it seemed to be holding the tattered remnants of his soul deep below it's surface, ebbing and swaying along that infamous ledge so many people have come to that very section of beach to visit. 

He pulled his headphones down around his neck as he stepped onto the boardwalk. The creek of the wooden boards flickered the movie reel inside of his noisy head of all the memories this place held, fast forwarding through all of the happy, beautiful memories and statically repeating over the same nightmare he could never unsee. His heart beat harshly beneath his ribs. His eyes stung back at the salty air with their own salt. The streaks burned at his cheeks as the ocean breeze collided with the winter winds against his skin. His fists clenched as he tried to stop them from falling. 

He let his eyes close gently, protecting the blue waves of his iris'. He focused on the waves breaking along the shore. He counted the seconds each breeze lasted on his exposed skin. He buried his hands further into his coat pockets. 

When the last details of the memory shift into crystal clear focus, he opens his freshly washed eyes. The air was cooling to his stained cheeks, softening the sorrowful warmth that filled him from head to toe. He wanted to feel lost again, and smiled shortly knowing that feeling was returning. He wanted to be lost to only that moment in his life, because that was where he knew he deserved to only ever remember again. Remembering every moment of that night helped to remind himself of why he was there, night after night after night. 

He walked across the boardwalk, along the same path he made each night, stopping at the section of the wooden railing that was nestled between an old wooden bench and the leaning beam of the light pole, holding up the flickering, fading yellow lamp light. He let his fingers curl around the top board, feeling the splintered wood press into the numbing nerves in his hands. So many hands have touched those railings. So many of them there to do what he brought himself back here over and over again to stop them from doing that very thing.

He clenched his fingers, shifting his cooling, stiffening muscles to allow himself to pull his body up and over the railing, using the three spaced horizontal boards as his own makeshift ladder. He kicked his legs over the top of the railing, one after the other, letting his body settle, sitting on the thin surface. He exhaled out a cloud of white before kicking his feet out before him, releasing the tension his fingertips had created against the wooden seat under him, letting gravity grasp him gently and pull him down with its soft force. 

His sneakers echoed a soft **poof** as the sand exploded underneath his weight, almost creating a deafening roar against the rumbling waves in the stuttering silence of the growing night around him. His knees buckled awkwardly and his ankles twisted his feet outwardly almost painfully as he dug his sneakers in the pliant sandy surface, trekking his way to the middle of the barren beachy shore escape. He lowered himself down to the crystalized ground, feeling the sandy particles shift and give way to his crouching figured weight, almost trying to pull him down and into itself, trying to help make him part of the sandy shorelines. 

He slid the fraying fabric straps of his canvas backpack down off of his shoulders, flipping and pressing the flimsy material against his side, pushing it somewhat forcefully into the crevice between the sand and his bended jean covered hip. He folded his knees in, letting his heels dig just at the indent of his thighs as he wrapped his arms around his shins, nails digging into opposing forearms, locking his body into that position. For comfort. For safety. 

He puffed out another white cloud, watching as it flurried, floated and fizzled into the dark night air. He was entirely alone on that beach. And, well, that was his favorite part. Because, as long as he was alone, there would be no sadness wretching a lost soul towards the watery beckoning calls this section of the beach harmonized to all those suffering, luring them to find a false bed of comfort and reprieve from all that was breaking them. 

Loneliness on that beach meant the world had stopped trying to snuff out the beauty it sometimes forgot it had created, only too focused on the damaged leftovers of the things it had already done. 

And, that was where he waited. Knees tucked in tight. Air creeping lower and lower into smaller atmospherical temperatures. Waves rolling in and out. In and out. 

In and out. 

\----------------------

The sun filtered in through the thinly veiled window shades, glowing too brightly against the stark white walls, stinging at the gray blue iris' of Bucky's eyes. _Shit fucking hurt._ The walls were bare. No decoration. No photographs. No life. The matching overly bleached, overly starched white linens scratch at the exposed sections of his skin. His rhythmic inhales and exhales were the only noise sounding at the early morning hours. 

Today was day 30. 

Today was release day. 

Today, Bucky could go home. 

But, only, there was no home to go to. There was no corner apartment, walls jutting against one another and sectioning off living rooms and bedrooms and kitchens and bathrooms, all where memories stuffed themselves into the invisibly familiar scented spaces that only a **home** could produce. That kind of scent that wasn't detectable by those that lived there, day after day, but only able to exist in the scent storing memory spaces of trusting friends and loving families that visited week after week. There were no sloppily painted walls, no photographs or crayon drawings scattering themselves across every available surface. No. There was no home to go to anymore.

The large circle clock in the therapist's office ticked too loudly in Bucky's ears. It was his last meeting inside these walls, for this visit, at least, before signing paperwork allowing him to stumble his way back into life. Not his old life, because that was still slightly embering flickers of dying reds and oranges beneath the piles of ashes of all the things he used to have. No. He could never return to that. That was gone. _Gone._ Gone. 

"...at her office, three times a week. She'll determine if outpatient therapy is effective enough to continue your treatment that way, or if we'll need to reconsider any additional stays. Do you agree to these terms, James?"

He knew he was supposed to be paying attention. He knew all the bullshit tricks and rehearsed phrases, mantras, reactions and fake smiles they had come to expect of him these past thirty days. Keeping his arms folded across his chest, body slouched partially down in the well worn out leather arm chair, Bucky nodded his head. Once. Twice. _Eh, fuck it, one more time, to really sell it for her._

"Fantastic. You've shown such great strides in your overall mental health this last week and a half. We've met with your friend, Mr. Wilson, whom seems very invested in you continuing towards your main goals you've helped establish while you've been here with us."

There's too much enthusiasm in the woman's voice. It was starting to throb at the canals of Bucky's ear drums, relentless and slightly annoying. Bucky tried to refrain from clenching his jaw, so he opted to dig his overdue-for-a-cut fingernails into the underside of his forearm, just out of sight of where Mrs. Whatever-Therapist couldn't see. 

He had played his part so well the last week and a half, he'd be bullshit at himself if he went and fucked it all up in the last ten minutes. 

"Let's get you out to the front desk. There's a few forms for you to fill out, and some information for you to take with you, regarding your appoinments, new prescriptions, legal forms regarding your recent hospital stay, and additional resources for yourself and for your roomates, as well, if needed. But, with the progress you've made, I hope they will be just extra paper on the coffee table for you."

Mrs. Whatever-Therapist stands, and, well, a lifelong instilled muscle memory of manners forced Bucky up out of his slouching position, standing in front of the woman, now, as she had circled her way out from behind the _really too fucking big for reasoning_ dark wooden desk. She was shorter than Bucky, the bridge of her nose hovering in the space along his sternum in his chest. _Force a smile. Keep up the charade. It's almost over. Gesture politely and follow behind. Nod your head. Sign the fucking papers. Smile again. Maybe show some teeth. Leave through the door. Just get through those fucking doors._

"Right this way, James."

Bucky followed behind the short woman, keeping his gaze focused on the locked glass paneled doors to his right. Both Bucky and Mrs. Whatever-Therapist stopped at the just-above-his-waist nurses station adjacent to the freedom doors. Papers were shuffled and stapled and stuffed into folders, pens scratching against the pressed copies. A forced, fake smile meets a natural, sincere smile. Hands bounce up and down, clasped in a weak handshake. 

"Take care of yourself, James. You deserve some goodness. Stay safe, and all of my best." 

Forced smile again. _Ah, there's some teeth. Good job._ Folders exchanged between hands, his fingers grasping it tightly, painful to be holding safety resources under his fingertips, but sliding enthusiasm across his features to mimick gratitude of the bullshit on the pages instead of how he truly felt. Bucky turned, letting the ward nestle itself into the backdrop of Bucky's physical realistic painting of his life and faced those _smudged to shit_ glass doors. A far off buzz reverberated against the same obnoxious white walls, _what the fuck is with that color and these places_ and then his arm pushed the door open. 

Bucky stepped cautiously across the threshold, almost expecting some invisible tether to cinch and recoil, the momentum bending his body in half at the waist, forcing him to kiss his fucking shoes, ripping him back inward, forcing more and more days he just didn't want to breathe life into anymore. His breath stuck like sludge inside of his lungs as the glass door closed and buzzed and locked itself back into place behind him. He was still waiting for the fuzzy dream lens over his eyes to lift away and he'd be right back in that _seriously, so fucking bright and white_ four walled hell hole he'd been living in for the past month. 

With each step towards the main door of the facility, the dream lens blurred, vignette shadings bleeding into the outlines of his peripherals, frame focus shifting further into the polaroid filter overlay that had snapped itself in place beneath the dreamy sequence lens filter. 

When the cold winter air washed over him, the final doorway opened and closed before and after him, the shutter of his decaying life snapped, again and again and again...documenting and detailing each moment of his reality finally coming to fruition. 

Bucky was finally free.

Free to finally give up.

And this time, he wasn't going to fuck it all up. _Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, no, fuck off...get the fucking gun and just pull the fucking trigger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi - rancidrat86.tumblr.com


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Bucky's POV.
> 
> Warnings, again, for heavy amounts of suicidal thoughts, planning, depressive thinking, alcohol abuse reference.

The next morning painfully mirrors the last thirty mornings. _Even that stupid fucking sun. Where the fuck are all the clouds?_ The morning sun stung into Bucky's blue eyes, riddled and emphasized brutally amongst the spiderwebbing red lines, bold reminders of just how _fucking shitty_ he slept last night. He didn't sleep that poorly when he was an inpatient at the psych hospital. _That's because they were making sure you took your meds, ya fucking dumbass..._ No. Bucky didn't take any of his meds last night. Didn't really see the point of them.

_Not when I'm ripping this fucking apartment apart the second Sam leaves. I know he still has his gun somewhere..._

As if the flicker of a thought about him somehow conjured him up, Sam's footsteps echoed down the long hallway that led to the spare bedroom in Sam's apartment that Bucky was now occupying. Bucky's muscles tensed, limbs locking into place, paralyzing him into his current position. Belly down, legs curled inward and shifted off to the side, arms criss crossed over his chest, face half buried between the edge of the pillow and mattress, fists clenched around the layers and layers of blankets. Sure, it was January, but the overkill of blankets was definitely a bit too much. _If I wanna be a fucking cacoon of terrible fucking thoughts and shit soaked emotions, then I can fucking be._

Sam's knuckles tapped across the thin door. **Knock. Knock. Knock.** _Damn fucking straight that door is closed and possibly barricaded with the nightstand...and bookcase...and TV stand..._ Bucky was almost positive that Sam hadn't magically sprouted super hearing abilities in the last day or so, or within the last few months since the last time Bucky had actually really spent time with Sam. Because, well, it had been a few months since Bucky had last seen Sam. Because, well, that was around the time when Bucky's life was still somewhat put together. _When the entire world hadn't decided to crumble into fucking pieces at my fucking feet._ So, when he held his breath and kept his already motionless body even more statue-still, Bucky was pretty sure Sam wouldn't be able to hear him. _Okay, like 77 percent sure._

Sam knocked softly on the door again. **Knock. Knock. Knock.** Bucky's head was starting to spin from his lack of that whole breathing thing. His shoulders had started to tremble from the tightness he was forcing his muscles to endure. His eyes flicked over to the closed door. The moments after that second series of knocks pinched into Bucky's already _pretty fucking iffy_ mental stability, so, for good measure, Bucky slammed his face completely under the pillow, dragging his long hair over his face in stranded clumps and definitely pulling at least some of them into knots. _Ha, well, to be fair, it's gonna look even worse with blood soaking through it...a few knots has gotta be the least of my problems._

The world was easier under that floppy pillow. Everything was muffled. Everything was darker. Everything was simple. But, then again, maybe it was only simple because Bucky knew what would be happening in the next hour. 

_I can finally be free._

\---------------

Bucky couldn't even really tell when he actually went from under-his-breath comments, straight to full blown growls, completely skipping over incoherent mumbles and very loud swearing, as he continued turning Sam's apartment into a perfect rendition of Burglar On A Rampage. Books, DVDs, pictures, stupid fucking knick-knacks _are you kidding me, Sam?_ tossing them all to the floor, with maybe a little too much force than absolutely necessary. 

Sam had hid his gun. 

And left the most adorable little note on the table, just for Bucky to find. 

**Bucky,**

**You're damn right I took it with me.  
I'm not a fucking idiot. **

**Eat food. Drink water.**

**-Sam**

**P.S. I hid the whiskey, too.**

**P.P.S. Vodka, too.**

Fuck. Bucky flopped himself down onto the couch, shoving the makeshift pile of pillows and blankets he had tossed onto it onto the floor. Digging the points of his elbows into his knees, he ran his fingers through his hair, gripping the strands between them and pulling, very hard. His head bobbed in time with the rhythm his legs were making, bouncing his feet on the toes of his feet, in turn bouncing his knees, in turn bouncing his elbows, in turn bouncing his fingers tha were attempting to furiously scalp his own head. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!_

Bucky released his hands, probably making his hair extremely happy about that, and ran his dry, cracked palms across his face, up and down, up and down, attempting to rub away whatever hint of emotion that may or may not have been trying to etch itself across his features. He threw himself backwards on the couch, letting his body crash into the cushions further. He let his eyes gaze around the room. Yup. He really lived up to his wasted burglaring talents. His eyes landed on the coffee table in front of him. Tucked off into the corner, haphazardly stacked ontop of some old magazines was that stupid folder filled with all those stupid papers Mrs. Whatever-Therapist had given to him. He couldn't help but laugh at that. They really had become some extra papers left on the coffee table. _Irony. Yup. Well, fuck._

Bucky pulled himself up off the couch and started putting away the random piles of Sam's _clearly hoarding tendencies_ back to their proper spots. Because, yeah, Bucky was an asshole. But, Sam didn't deserve the impromptu redecoration just because he could still read Bucky like a fucking god damn book. Hell, Sam had offered up his extra bedroom for Bucky without any hesitation. Yeah, Bucky knew Sam was just looking out for him, but... _Sam was really fucking up the afternoon scheduled activity..._

\----------------------

The clock on the opposing wall ticked away, seemingly _slower than fucking necessary. Forty-five more minutes._ The overly fancy leather chair smelled funny. Bucky couldn't help wrinkling his nose up every few seconds at the smell, distinctive of overly dramatic sob stories of all the people who have planted their asses into the very same spot his was. _Okay, maybe that's not really fair. Maybe some shit really DID happen to those people. Maybe those people really DID need therapy..._ No, Bucky definitely didn't believe he needed to talk shit out. What was the point? No matter what he said or did, no matter how many pills the doctors shoved down his throat...nothing was ever gonna change. Bucky was never gonna be the same person he used to be. Not even a newer version of himself seemed appealing to him, like everyone had been smashing into his fucking skull. _They can go right ahead and fuck themselves._ So, maybe wrinkling his nose at all the smells of people who have sat down in the same seat before him may have been a little asshole-ish. Just because they could fucking figure their shit out didn't mean Bucky had to be a dick towards them. 

_Hmm...being sympathetic towards BOTH Sam and The Walking Dead Crowd of Equally and Genuinely Mentally Unstable People That Benefitted From Therapy in the same fucking day?! Mrs. Whatever-Therapist would be so proud...using all those fucking drawn out life skills like I'm supposed to be. Who would have fucking thought that?!_

"...can't refute the situation at hand, James. You've suffered an intense emotional trauma. There's no one way to process, or to grieve. Nobody is going to critique you on how you choose to grieve."

This therapist was way younger than Mrs. Whatever-Therapist. _Fuck, what was her name again? Sue? Nancy? Ah, shit._ Bucky flicked his eyes towards the clock above her head, focusing more on the ticks it was making than on what she was actually saying. _Thirty-two more minutes._

"I don't expect you to be instantly healed overnight. I don't even expect that in a year's time. This is entirely specific to you and what you need from all of this. That's what I am here for, to help assist you with any resources you may or may not think you need."

She leaned forward, legs professionally crossed over one another, yellow pad of paper balancing on her top knee cap, elbows bent and propped, supporting her slightly tilted head, pen waving dismissively in between her index finger and thumb. She screamed stereotypical therapist, and, really, Bucky meant that in a very polite, complimentary way. If the cheap store done up framed diplomas and certificates scattered over the walls of this lady's office meant anything, she clearly worked her ass off to get herself to where she was today. And, shit, she seemed pretty young, too. She had to be around the same age as Bucky, himself. _Not gonna lie. A little impressed._

"But, I need you to talk to me about what happened. I need to know what it is you're thinking, what it is you're feeling. Your stay over the past month at the hospital showed you had been willing to work through some of these steps, but never fully exposing yourself. This was the arrangement decided upon between yourself and the staff at the hospital to ensure the safety of yourself. This only works if you're willing to talk, to communicate with me."

 _Twenty-three more minutes._ Bucky had, at some point during _Stacy? Rebecca?_ running through her first meeting speech that Bucky had, honestly heard more times than warranted in his lifetime, slouched his way down in the leather seat. His knees had spread, helping to keep his shifting lower center of gravity steady, as well as helping to keep his ass from sliding all the way off of the chair itself. He squeezed his arms tighter, keeping them crossed across his chest, blatantly and symbolically letting _Sarah? Heather?_ know he was absolutely going to be refusing to open his fucking mouth and talk about his feelings.

The woman broke her gaze from Bucky's, _Ha! I fucking win!_ , because, apparently, Bucky was a fucking child who silently played the staring game while sitting in mandated therapy...and she flipped through the yellow notepad still her in lap. The first few pages had her fancy curly handwriting scrawled across the lines, single spaced. _Fuck, she's got a lot to say about me, huh?_

"It says you had quite a bit of alcohol in your system upon your arrival to the emergency department when this all had started. Did you happen to look over the information we put together for you to start attending AA meetings in the area?" 

_When this ALL had started?! That's how we're gonna word it?!_

His eyes flicked back to the clock. _Fourteen more minutes._

"Look, I'm here to help you. I can't do that if you won't talk to me. Those papers you signed at discharge left it up to me to decide if I think you're safe, or if you're a risk to yourself again. I don't want to leave you an ultimatum here, but I need you to try. I don't want to have to force you back into another additional stay at a hospital again."

_Don't worry. Won't be an issue that much longer._

_Seven minutes._

She shifted her weight in her own leather chair, her crossed knees swaying side to side as she pushed herself back into it. Her elbows winged out, letting them sit on either armrest. She clasped her hands in front of her, letting them lay ontop of her abdomen. The yellow pad of paper slid down on her thighs, jutting into the spot just under where her hands were, now, resting. _Three minutes._

"James, I really am here to help you, and truly want to see you help yourself get better. I know therapy is not something you've been particularly welcoming towards, but you were able to talk while you were an inpatient."

_Forty-six seconds._

"I understand that you are suffering, James, and I can't even begin to imagine..."

_Time's up._

Bucky uncrosses his arms, gripping into the worn out leather on his own armrests, feeling the give of the material beneath his fingertips. He clenches and pushes himself up out of the chair, knees locking and feet planting on the pristine gray carpet. With one last glance towards _Denise? Jillian?_ Bucky shifts and walks towards the closed office door. 

"James. James, please."

His hand wraps around the door handle, twisting and prying the door open, letting the rush of the waiting room wash over him. 

"James!"

Without even missing a beat, he steps into the diluted waiting room, garnishing a few confused glances of waiting patients as his therapist called after him. He didn't falter in his footsteps as he trekked across the coordinating gray carpet of the waiting room and reaching the adjacent closed door, hand grabbing and twisting the door handle and prying it open as well. His footsteps echoed mutely in the _same fucking color gray_ carpeted hallway. 

_Glad that's fucking over..._

His hands reached out and pressed the lever to unlock the main door to the building, winter wind washing over him instantly. 

_Sharon! Fuck. That was it..._

\-----------------------------

Nightime had started to fade across the sky as Bucky wove his way through the crowding sidewalks. It had to have been close to 5:00 at night, with the sudden swell of people darting back and forth across the streets. _It's 5 o'clock somewhere, right? Ehh, fuck off Jimmy Buffet. Your songs suck._ The glow of the neon BAR sign in the window above his head helped ease Bucky's mind into the instant thought that he was only a doorway away from letting the shittiest brand of booze numb away everything his mind wouldn't let him forget. 

Bucky had to reel himself back a bit, pulling on the door handle for the bar. Didn't want to rip the fucking thing off at its hinges and let everyone know just how fucking desperate he was to get drunk. _Wait, what's like seventeen steps beyond drunk? Smashed? Fucking annihilated? Let's go with THAT one! That sounds fun...sounds super destructive. And, well, since Sam hid the fucking gun..._

The bar itself wasn't much to even really focus on for the finer details. It was dimly lit. It had dark painted walls. It had some funky smell to it. It had that weird, odd air that was somehow filled with a rancid moisture, kind of like just before it rained, how the atmosphere swelled with rain water just before it exploded out of the clouds and washed down over everyone. Yeah, kind of like that. Except, Bucky was pretty sure it was really boozey vomit stored away in those metaphorical clouds. _Wait, was that a metaphor?_

Bucky slid into the furthest away booth, at the furthest away table, tucked underneath the furthest away light. He pulled the brim of his baseball cap down lower, feeling the push of the brim dig into the protruding bones in his forehead, just above where his face sunk in at his eyes. The chill from the evening winter air still stung at his clothes, at his skin, even within the confining walls and worn out leathery booth seats. 

When the bartender made his way over to Bucky's table, he instantly ordered two shots of whiskey and a very open tab and detailed instructions to keep bringing bottle after bottle of beer. And to make it the shittiest brand possible. He wanted to relish in the obnoxious fucking hangover he was definitely going to have the next morning. _Maybe, if I can keep my head throbbing in pain, it can help distract me from thinking about anything..._

The bartender returned, two crystal clear shot glasses filled to the almost brim with that amber liquid, and one condensating beer bottle, popped and ready for Bucky. That first burn of the first shot was oddly soothing for Bucky. The second singed his tendering throat in the perfect way. This was exactly what Bucky needed. An escape. 

\----------------------------

Last call seemed to sprint it's fucking way right up the fucking path of Bucky's perfect fucking night. Jackknifing it's fucking way right up it's fucking ass. Buttfucking it's way into absolute annihilation of perfectly seasoned drunk fucking oblivion... _Shut up, Buck. You're not making sense anymore..._

_No, you shut the fuck up. Nobody fucking asked you._

_Yeah, that's what I thought. Punk._

Bucky slid himself across the leathery booth seat, rocking the table slightly, making the several, several beer bottles clink together. Bucky focused on his feet, forcing himself to concentrate on the necessary weight needed for each foot and the way his muscles flexed and _did some other medically important stuff that the body does without having to think this fucking much about..._

Once he pushed through the bar door and stepped back out onto the sidewalk, the wintery wind had significantly dropped down a shitload of degrees. But, hey, at least the sidewalk was pretty empty. 

Bucky shoved his hands into his pocket, pulling the jacket closer around his torso, and started walking in some direction. No actual thought put into that action. No real thought put into it even throughout his aimless waltz through the city, at least not until he felt the salty mist hit his reddening cheeks. _The fucking boardwalk?_

Bucky shrugged his shoulders, settling into the idea that he trudged throughout the city to make it to the boardwalk. He managed to stumble across the wooden planks, catching his toes on the warped boards only seven times, _fuck off, that shit's impressive even when I'm sober, okay?_ , and made his way to the off centered wooden bench. There were only three along the entire boardwalk, but this first one was probably the most significant. Why the fuck they hadn't removed it yet was beyond Bucky's squash rotting brain to figure out at that moment. _You'd think they take out the landmark that helped people figure out where they were. Fucking geniuses that maintained this place. Two fucking thumbs up, dumbshits._

Bucky plopped himself down on the bench, arms crossing over his chest, hands tucked into his armpits, body slouching slightly down into the slanting of the bench. He set his gaze out over the water, trying to focus his shaking vision onto the dark waves. He let the sound of them crashing wash over himself, trying to let them calm and settle his frying nerves. Didn't fucking work. He can still feel everything. Fucking everything. He can still fucking remember everything, too. Fuck. _Well, this plan didn't fucking work, now fucking did it?!_

Just outside of his really pissed off glaring contest with the fucking ocean, Bucky noticed a curled up figure sitting on the beach in front of him. _Huh, wonder if they're here for the same reason all those other people came here for..._

_Wait, maybe that isn't such a bad idea. If Sam's gonna keep hiding his fucking gun on me...well, fucking shit...there's an entire fucking shore for that! Fuck, what was it that girl called it at the psych place...?_

_Something shore...fuck, what was it?..._

_Oh, yeah._

_Suicide Shore._


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings again for suicidal thoughts, planning, really bad coping skills, and excessive drinking.
> 
> Also, a warning for a Serial Killing Godzilla Cockroach.
> 
> Be mindful of that one, really scary stuff...
> 
> And Bucky's conscience is a real smartass, sometimes.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

A violent shiver rocked through Bucky's body, ripping through his winter jacket, and extra layers of shirts, smashing deep into his bones, entirely fucking with the marrow nestled in there. _Who the fuck knew you could feel the cold even in there?!_ Bucky opened his eyes, squinting, keeping his field of vision narrowed, for god knows what fucking reason. _Why the fuck was the world tilted to its right?! And why does my neck feel like it's about to snap right the fuck in half?!_ Oh. He passed out. After the bar. At the boardwalk. On a fucking bench. _Classy, fuckstain. Real fucking classy. Passing out in public._ Well, not that he really gave a shit. Wouldn't be around too much longer to really even care. 

Except, passing out half fucking tipped over on some random fucking bench on some boardwalk really took his overall plans and titty twisted the fuck out of them. 

Shit. The world really needs to stop fucking with his Poorly Thought Out Ending His Own Life Plans. 

Can't fucking drown his fucking self in broad fucking daylight, now. _Nice fucking going, Barnes._ That's why people came to this deserted section of the beach, anyways, right? They come from wherever it is that their worlds crumbled around their feet, stumbling and ugly crying their way to some sandy shoreline nestled in between two lightposts. That's all it is. Just a span of sandy ground, separated from the rest of the world...all that sadness and despair, bleakness and remorse, ultimate overwhelming desparation to find some kind of release from all that pain and suffering...trapped in between two fucking beams of wood. At least whatever dickhead god had found the disturbingly appropriate for the moment sense of humor to place a bench set far enough back to let some sick fuck be their own unsympathetic peanut gallery. 

Bucky snorted to himself, realizing the irony of his own actions. He was that fucking peanut gallery at the moment. Wasn't there someone waiting on the beach last night? Did they jump in and give it all up while I was passed the fuck out? _Damn, I should have asked for some pointers._ He snorted at himself again, because, yeah, he was such a fucking asshole. 

_What is it they keep saying...'you've suffered an emotional trauma'...so, hey, fuck off, I can be as darkly sarcastic as I fucking wanna be._

Bucky had somehow managed to lift himself up on the bench, pressing his hands down on the wooden planks underneath him, steadying himself. Yup, the world was still a little bit iffy on the whole being upright thing. _Stop being so fucking loud world, first of all. Fuck._ He side-eyed the fuck out of the flock of seagulls being obnoxiously still fucking alive, squaking about some bullshit, probably, about how they want food or who gets to fly Point Bird or who gets to shit on whose shoulders. _Second of all, fuck, this is definitely top five of worst fucking hangovers._ Well, at least A for fucking effort. 

Bucky shifted his weight again on the bench, spreading his arms out further away from him, preparing himself for the very, _absolutely gonna fucking happen_ chance that he's going to puke at least half of his small intestine all over the boardwalk. _Wonder if it'll freeze in this weather..._ Nope. Maybe don't think of frozen barf right now. 

His fingers traced over something plastic to his side. Plastic and really fucking cold, too. His eyes dragged, because his entire body was still in reboot mode, their way over to see what exactly was introducing whatever fresh hell of new sensation that was currently infiltrating his fucking life. 

An unopened bottle of water and three granola bars. 

_Huh..._

_Drunk me isn't that considerate to future hung-as-fuck-over me._

_Suicidally drunk me most definitely isn't that considerate to any future variation of myself._

Bucky glanced around the boardwalk, taking his time turning his head side to side, _what am I, a fucking idiot?_ , making sure to keep that fucking hangover in mind with any sudden movements. Not that he really could forget it at the moment...

The boardwalk was empty. Aside from the patrol officer walking around, Bucky was completely alone. _Because THAT makes the whole magically appearing food less creepy..._ So, he did what any recently passed the fuck out, semi-intelligent (don't pay attention to his current emotional and psychological state of mind, nor pay any attention to his actions last night...), Bucky opened the granola bars and opted to feed the seagulls on the beach below him. Yup. Refused to trust the magical food. _Smart, Bucky. Smart move._

Bucky had managed to pick and throw his way through one entire bar, and was mostly through the second by the time the foot officer made his way to where Bucky was sitting. 

"C'mon, man. Can you not feed the birds?"

Bucky jumped slightly from the sudden noise, quickly rubbing his hands together to make it look like he was just shivering, _real smooth, Barnes_. He turned and looked at the patrol officer, preparing himself to give some half-hearted apology. He looked over and the patrol officer was pointing at a sign plastered to the light post to the right of Bucky, very blatantly and obviously posted, too. _Whoops._

"Yeah, man, sorry."

Bucky stuffed the still wrapped granola bar into his pocket, and crumpled the last piece of the second in its own wrapper, grabbing the wrapper from the first and the still unopened plastic water bottle, he stood up from the bench, wordlessly conjuring the most bullshit agreement with gravity regarding his very prominent hungover state. _Listen, don't be an asshole about this, alright?_

He took a few very tentative steps towards the trash barrel just past the same "Don't Feed The Birds You Dick" sign, _no, it really said that, I swear_ , feeling the suspicious eyes from the patrol officer on him. _Act natural._ Bucky tossed the wrappers into the trash from a few steps away, getting them both in without much of an effort. _Good job. Totally doesn't think you're just some homeless drunk. You can throw trash away. Solid move. Keep going._ He reached his arm back and gently tossed the water bottle, watching as it rolled off his fingertips and coasted through the air. _He shoots, he..._ ...it bounced off the rim of the barrel, flipping mid air and clanging loudly onto the boardwalk planks _you motherfucker._ He bent down, scrambling to catch the bottle before it rolled away from him, even more aware, now, of that fucking patrol officer's beady little fucking eyes glaring over at him. _Keep walking, you foot walker._

_Seriously? That doesn't even make sense._

_Fuck off, alright. I'm way too fucking hungover for all of this bullshit right now._

He wrapped his fingers around the bottle, very aggressively clenching it in his fist and swinging his arm over his hips. The bottle bounced off the rim of the barrel again. _Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me?!?_

Now, seemingly just to fucking taunt him, the bottle bounced onto the boardwalk and rolled away from him, with kind of impressive speed. Kind of. Don't give that bottle that much credit... He hurried his steps, now, on a fucking mission to destroy and annihilate that fucking plastic casing of _whatever the fucking sounds like a good fucking metaphor. Fuck that water. I don't care where it fucking flowed naturally out of whatever fucking waterfall._ Yup, he fucking skipped down the boardwalk, bent over at the waist, hand reached out way too far for comfort in front of him, and, well _fuck whatever that foot walker person over there fucking thinks. It is literally 6 in the fucking morning and I just wanna be passed the fuck out. But...NOOOO...I'm chasing a fucking water bottle. Because dickwad in the neon yellow jacket is all Mr. High and Fucking Mighty Environmental Safety or whatever bullshit and so I'm fucking chasing down a fucking bottle. Fuck. Fuck all of this._

If his anger wasn't so pure and scalding fucking hot at that exact moment, Bucky was almost positive he would have easily broken down and cried. Right then and there. In the middle of the empty boardwalk. Because, that would have easily been the last straw. He had been doing what he could to hold whatever he had left for emotions bundled up inside of himself, doing everything just shy of wrapping himself up in fucking duct tape. He was doing so good. Managing to fool everyone that pretended or was paid to give a damn. Until this fucking water bottle. 

Fuck. The too bright, too loud, too shifty _fuck off, that's a word_ , world suddenly became too blurry. No. Fuck. He was crying. Fucking tears. _What a fucking betrayal..._ His last few steps were mostly just him tripping over himself as he managed to catch up with the bottle, grabbing it and walking over to the barrel and all but diving head first into it, placing the fucking bottle into it, expecting to feel the rush of fucking accomplishment for finally trashing that symbolic 'last straw'. Yeah, he felt fucking nothing. 

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and stomped off down the boardwalk. Yes, literally fucking stomped. It was a tantrum, after all...

\---------------------------------

The morning grew brighter, but stayed just as dreary. The clouds refused to part, keeping the raw chill hovering in the air. The cemetery was empty. Not surprising, considering it was 8 o'clock in the morning. In the middle of the week. _Not really the popular hang out spot, I guess..._

Bucky weaved his way through the mass maze of headstones, all varying in shades of stoney gray and pristine reds, contrasting against one another as the different types of stones littered the open field. Some headstones were decorated with lavish and ornate decorations and flowers, even with the harsh winter temperatures. Others were left barren, cold and alone. His feet took him where he needed to be, even if so much of him didn't want to. 

He hated himself for feeling that way. For having such a strong part of himself that would do anything to avoid being there. And, when his feet finally shuffled to a stop, did he let the full melting pot of everything he had kept tucked away spill over and out of himself. Tears fell down his cheeks, warm and then instantly cooled in the winter wind. They splashed dramatically on the pavement path beneath his feet. And, when he fell to his knees and braced his hands on the rough edges of the headstone, did he let them rush out of his eyes and muddy themselves into the dirt under him. 

He looked up, blinking away some tears, enough to let the world settle back in from the blurred chaos it had just been thrown into. He reached his fingers up, tracing the carved out letters of the name in the red stone. His words shook when he finally managed to speak.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you. I'm so sorry I couldn't get to you sooner." 

His words caught in his throat, stabbing and clawing at the lining, begging to be choked back down. He knew that as he spoke each word, each fucking syllable, that it only made everything more real. 

It only made his guilt more painful. 

"It should be me in there. It shouldn't be you. I failed. I failed to protect you. I know I promised you I would always be there, and...and...I let you down."

He dropped his head again, allowing the washing rush of his own guilt swallow him whole. He deserved the sharp sting in his chesr as the words spilled out of him. He deserved everything that could cause him all this pain. And, when his shaking hands and knees gave out, and he fell chest down onto the frozen ground beneath him, did he heave out the last flood of tears before he let the world stuff him back into darkness again. 

\---------------------------------

Bucky woke up hours later, at least he thinks it was hours. The sky was still gray. The ground was still frozen. He still had air in his lungs. _Fuck._ He huffed and pushed himself up off of the ground, leaning forward to plant a firm kiss against the cold surface of the red stone in front of him. He brushed his fingertips over the place where his lips had left a smudge of saliva, resting them there, somehow trying to feel the life that wasn't really there, buried underneath those six foot layers of dirt. 

Even if there wasn't. 

\----------------------------------

The same ever putrid stench of the bar filled his nose, and it wasn't until he was tucked away in the furthest away corner booth again, _hey, fucking amen, something went right for once, nobody sat in my sad spot. Yes, fuck off, I get to have a sad spot, and this is fucking it_ , did Bucky finally find the courage to breathe again. That same bartender was working again, _two for fucking two?!_ , and placed two shot glasses and an ice cold beer in front of Bucky without saying a word. 

Because the two of them agreed, apparently, on the whole not talking thing, Bucky would never be able to tell him how grateful he was for supplying him with the booze and not offering anything else. _Yup. It's the simple things in life._ As routines went, this blossoming colassal fucking mess of one was easily becoming Bucky's favorite. He tossed both shot glasses of the shittiest, cheapest whiskey down, one right after the other, and absorbed himself in the process of getting sloppy shitty drunk. 

\------------------------------------

"Hey, man, closing time."

_What the fuck, man? I thought we weren't doing the talking bullshit?_

_When did you get a twin?_

_Nope. Not a twin. Ha! Whoa._

Bucky grumbled under his own breath, annoyed with the disentangled tangents his mind was currently flopping around in and pulled out another handful of crumpled dollar bills. _Do I crumple them up before I stuff them in my pocket? What gives?_ He drops the pile of wadded money on the table and slides his way out of the booth, having to think too hard about the way his feet worked again. _Fucking useless body...needs a fucking brain to make it move...pffft_. 

He's not entirely sure that **pffft** was still in his head...

Shoulders hit the bar door. Gust of wind washes over him. Winter air freezes in his lungs. Memories stab him right in the fucking heart. _Fuck!_

So, his feet stumbled him right along that emptying sidewalk, back to where he wanted to be, this time. 

\--------------------------------

The boardwalk was empty. Perfect. The beach was empty. Even more perfect-er. _No, that's not right._ Bucky half stumbled, half fell face first into his trusty old wooden bench between those two lightposts. _Good thing Mr. Foot Patrol Officer Man Person isn't here to judge me with his judgey stupid fucking eyes. Fucker. And his stupid yellowy shiny jacket sleeveless capey thing._ Maybe there was a very good chance that Bucky purchased more of the alcohol variety choices of beverages on his way to his favorite sad spot. _No, this is his favorite Favorite Sad Spot._

And, that's where he sat. Body slouched down against the slotted planks of wood, arms huddled together, pressing down across hus chest, and his barely open eyes stared out into the darkened choppy surface of the ocean, watching as each wave rolled in off of the last, crashing down into each other. 

Just as he started to let himself drift off into that perfect little space in time, the space where he didn't have to feel anything, he didn't have to remember anything, and his inhibitions had been so far tossed to the proverbial wind, a fucking dark, silhouetted intruder came and fucking ripped him out of his Favorite Sad Spot #3. _The barroom booth is Favorite Sad Spot #2_.

This Fucking Intruder stopped just shy of where Bucky was slouching all angsty-like, hands reaching for the top beam of the boardwalk's railing, lifting a leg, one after the other, climbing ontop of it. Once both legs had swung themselves over, This Fucking Intruder sucked in a deep breath, _what the fuck for?_ and leapt down off of the toppest mostest railing. _Fucking hell, Buck, grammar, you and whiskey do NOT fucking get along well, at all._

_You, shut the fuck up. No one asked you to speak._

For a split second, or maybe it was more, or less, who knows...Bucky forgot there was an entire beach below the boardwalk, filled with soft enough sand, so that if someone jumped down off of the toppest mostest railing thingy, they weren't actually going to go **splat**. But, Bucky was bordering sloppy shitfaced levels of drunkenness, so, he shot up in his Favorite Sad Spot #1 and his, now, very wide the fuck open eyes scanned the tannish softy surface, _the word you're looking for, shitstain, is 'sandy', for future reference..._

_Who the fuck asked you to speak, again?_

But, Bucky was well beyond that point. He stopped, maybe, at one, or three, stores to refill his 'dry mouth' issue he had spontaneously contracted on his way from the bar. Very serious condition. Whiskey has been a proven common cure, highly effective, fantastic results. No doctor would recommend it. It's an old wives tale medicinal approach. _Fuck off, I wanted to get more shitfaced than I was._ This Fucking Intruder was taking too long to resurface. Did they really go **splat** and he just hadn't heard it? Did something grab them from underneath the boardwalk? Oh fuck, is there, like, a godzilla like cockroach that had been festering and growing with each passing day, just waiting to snatch up it's first victim? Or, are there dozens of missing people's bones and guts scattered underneath his fucking feet?! Yes, he lifted his feet up off the boardwalk, just in case... Fucking right if you think he was going to keep his fucking feet planted on just some flimsy thin wooden barrier between himself and a fucking Serial Killing Godzilla Cockroach!

**Phew.**

This Fucking Intruder appeared from deep within the fucking chokehold the shadows clearly had on them, miraculously surviving, having fended off the fucking Serial Killing Godzilla Cockroach. _Yeah, that's totally why they took seventy hours to reappear..._

_What the fuck did I say about talking? Nobody fucking asked you, okay Conscience?! If that's even your real name...continue fucking off, okay!?_

Bucky watched This Fucking Intruder make their way across the beach, legs wobbling in the give and pull the soft sand made under their feet. Halfway across the beach, This Fucking Intruder stopped, way too abruptly for Bucky's drunken mind to cope with, at the moment. _Fuck, did they hear the Serial Killing Godzilla Cockroach move? Is it coming back for vengeance? Is it blood thirsty and only wants blood? Fuck! I'm closer than they are! What the FUCK This Fucking Intruder?!?!!_

This Fucking Intruder dropped their backpack from off of their shoulders, letting it fall onto the sand next to their feet before kneeling down and getting themselves settled into the sand. They pulled their legs in, knees pressing against their chest and wrapping their arms around their shins, locking themselves into the same position they had been the night before. They kept their focus out towards the quietly rolling ocean in front of them, a calming soft silence settling over them both...no actual Serial Killing Godzilla Cockroach attacking...

_Oh._

And, if Bucky's Conscience laughed its fucking ass off at himself, well, then...that's for Bucky and Bucky's Conscience to deal with...

_You just fucking wait..._


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings.
> 
> Bucky and Steve finally meet...and they talk, and disagree...

The ocean waves were calming. Steve couldn't really pinpoint what it was that brought that sense of tranquility to his messy soul, but the ocean was the only thing he had found in this world that had had it. _Ironic, I know._ He definitely could understand how completely twisted and, yes, blatantly ironic that sentimental statement actually was. Yes, it was the ocean that soothed him over, from the inside out. But, it was the very same ocean that ripped his entire world from just out of reach of his fingertips.

Very fucking literally. 

No, he knows that it wasn't his fault. Keep trying to tell him that, though. Because, he's doing such a fabulous fucking job of believing it. That part absolutely wasn't very fucking literally. Because, holy fuck, was Steve absolutely, whole heartedly, very fucking blatantly _not_ believing one fucking word of that bullshit. 

_It wasn't my fucking fault?! Seriously?! Fuck the fuck right the fuck off._

Steve shook his head, letting the few strands of his blond hair that had snuck their way out from underneath his knit cap flutter against his forehead. Those were the kind of thoughts he fought to keep out of his head. And he worked really fucking hard to keep them way the fuck out, too. 

The only time he ever let himself toy with them is when he needed a solid reminder as to why he led himself back to this same beach, this very same stretch of sandy shoreline, nestled in between those same two light posts, night after night after night.

It had been almost three weeks since he had last found someone on the very edge of where the waves crashed down. They had just started to step their feet into the water by the time Steve had jumped down from the top of the boardwalk's railing. If he hadn't been distracted by some little old lady trying to cross the street six blocks down, he would have been there even before they could have gotten their shoes off. 

They always took their shoes off. 

Something Steve couldn't ever figure out. And nobody he asked had a decent enough answer. They all stared wildly back at Steve whenever he asked them, too. Almost as if to silently say that of all questions to ask, that was the one Steve went with. _Well, I kind of really wanna know the answer, though..._

But, last night, there was somebody else on the boardwalk. Steve hadn't noticed them while he was sitting on the beach, but only when he had turned around when the sun started to come up over the water's furthest away ledge, breaking up over the horizon like it was breaching out from the depths of the murky ocean floor. It startled him, at first. Nobody ever came to this section of the water unless they were there for one very specific thing. And, they never stopped at the railings. It was as though some unforseeable force was pulling them, latched on and strangling them from around their waists, reeling them in, closer and closer to the water's comforting swells. 

But, this stranger was just, well, there. Still. Watching over the beach, at a distance. _Is he here for the same reason I am? Is he trying to save them all, too?_

When Steve climbed back over the railing, setting his feet softly onto the wooden planks of the boardwalk that first morning with The Stranger, with a million questions roaring inside of his head, did he get the first whiff of his only needed answer. 

The Stranger was just a drunk. 

The Drunken Stranger must have stumbled over to the bench in the middle of the early parts of the morning and had passed out. _Looks so fucking uncomfortable, man._ Steve laughed to himself, sliding the backpack off of his shoulders, bending down so he could rummage through it's contents. He pulled out a full water bottle, setting it down just to the side of The Drunken Stranger and dug back into the backpack. He pulled out a handful of granola bars, ones he had tossed into his backpack a few days ago, partially forgetting about them until that moment. He set down one bar beside the water bottle, hesitating, then setting another two down, just in case. He cinched back up the drawstring on his canvas backpack and slid it back onto his shoulders, standing back up, facing The Drunken Stranger.

He glanced over him, quickly, realizing that if The Drunken Stranger woke up within the next few seconds, Steve's life would probably be heavily scrutinized, and possibly threatened. _Nobody wants to wake up after a night out of drinking to see some random ass guy staring them down at the beach._ But, Steve couldn't help but take in The Drunken Stranger's features.

The Drunken Stranger's face looked like it had been marred, riddled with despair and an infinite sadness that Steve found himself wanting to take and release The Drunken Stranger from, offering peace and calmness that he probably had been deserving for some time, now. Even though The Drunken Stranger clearly was passed out, the sharp stench of booze permeating even through his layers of clothes and out across the wintery air, Steve could smell it. And, digging further and further into the deepest parts of himself, Steve found that the amount of alcohol The Drunken Stranger had to have consumed to still reach across a considerable distance to make itself known to Steve the way it was, must have been a fucking shitload of shots. _What was he trying so hard to forget?_

The Drunken Stranger's clothes appeared newer, not like the kind one would find on someone who had been living in the streets for some time. Steve gathered that The Drunken Stranger couldn't have been homeless. Sure, scruffy facial hair, gnarly shoulder length hair tucked up awkwardly beneath a baseball cap, and probably four or five layers of clothes underneath his jacket, but, Steve didn't find anything that led him to believe that The Drunken Stranger was just some alcoholic homeless guy. 

_Hell of a place to pass out, pal. Hope your hangover isn't too bad._

Steve shrugged his shoulders before turning and walking away from The Drunken Stranger, curious to know if he'd ever actually see him again.

\---------------------------------

_Well, what do you fucking know? The Drunken Stranger has returned!_

Steve's shoes weren't as quiet this morning as they had been the previous, as he jumped down from climbing over the railing on the boardwalk. He sniffed at the air again, as well.

_Ah, drunk. Glad to see you're consistent, at least._

Steve huffed out a soft laugh, letting his breath whiten into a thin cloud in front of him as he bent down to sift through his backpack once again. He pulled out another full bottle of water, and another handful of granola bars again. Don't get too carried away. They were just the leftover handful of granola bars he didn't leave out yesterday morning. He placed them next to The Drunken Stranger, in almost the exact spot from yesterday. Standing up, cinching the backpack closed, he turned his heel and continued his way back towards the city, slinging the backpack over his shoulders and stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, shaking his head in amusement and slight disbelief. 

_I'm sure I'll see you tomorrow..._

\-------------------------------------

Bucky finds himself in pretty much the same position he had been in the morning before. _Well, can't say I'm not one for routine, huh?_ And, yes, a massive fucking hangover decided to join him for the morning sunrise, like the bitch it is. It took him all of 5.3 seconds to remember This Fucking Intruder from the night before. 

That, apparently, was just enough time to peel his scratchy as shit eyes open, squint and curse just about every swear known to mankind at the fucking bullshit bright as shit sunlight, and catch This Fucking Intruder walking away down the boardwalk. _I like to make the most of my time, try to fit as much as I can in..._ Yes. He snorted to himself, because he very clearly thought he was the funniest fucking person on that boardwalk. ...just don't pay attention to the fact that he was the **only** person currently on the boardwalk. _This Fucking Intruder walks fucking fast..._

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught another full bottle of water and three more granola bars. He ripped open one of the bars and took a large bite out of it, giving in to the kind gesture of This Fucking Intruder, twisting off the cap to the bottle and downing half the bottle in three gulps, even before he was finished chewing. Impressed, slightly, that he didn't actually end up choking himself. _Dammit...doesn't fate or whatever know what I'm trying to actually do?!_

He tipped back the water bottle and finished off the rest of it before getting to his feet. He stuffed the last two bars in his pocket and made his way back towards the city, stopping at the trash barrel and **placing** the empty bottle into it, refusing to be outsmarted by a fucking trash barrel again. 

He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and stormed off the boardwalk, remembering the very lopsided fight he had with the very inanimate object. _Fuck off, I was hungover. The fucking trash had an unfair advantage._

\-----------------------------------

Bucky was determined to win this round of Epic Murder Glare Stare Down again with... _Holy fuck...what the fuck was her name again?!!_ Currently, Bucky was winning that showdown. Okay, he wasn't completely one hundred percent sure Therapist Lady was actually particpating in said showdown, or that she was even entirely aware it was happening. He was, maybe, sixty-three percent sure... Either way, he was totally winning. 

Murder Glare Stare.  
_Check._  
Crossed Arms of Definance.  
_Check._  
Posture of Slumped Down Depression.  
_Check._  
Spread Out Legs Not In A Sexy Way But In A Way So One's Ass Stays In The Leathery Chair.  
_Check._

Yup. Bucky was manhandling that inner checklist of his like a fucking professional. What exactly that profession is, well, that's besides the point. Fuck off. Moving on. 

The only movement he even allowed himself to have was the almost rhythmically timed flicker his eyes did dancing back and forth between his Murder Glare Stare towards Therapist Lady and that fucking clock behind her head. And, yup, promptly at 4:00 pm, he jumped out of the chair, almost as if someone put one of those airbags from a car and set it off under his ass so he sprung way too dramatically in the air, and stomped his way over to the door, ripping it open, huffing past the receptionist and gawking other crazy-probably-like-him people in the waiting room and out through the door to the main building. 

_I._  
Fucking.  
Win. 

\------------------------------------

Same bar. Same table. Same bartender. _Dude, take a night off..._

Same round of shots and beers. Same.

Same. Same. Same.

Except, This Fucking Intruder. Fucking bullshit...they were even intruding on Bucky's Get Himself Drunk As Shit Time. That fucking asshole. 

He swung back what was left in the beer bottle in his hands, cutting himself off way before his usual conquest of drunken adventures, left his usual pile of crumpled money, _Seriously, Buck, would it kill you to straighten out some of the money first?_

 _Oh, asshole, if only I were that lucky..._ , and made his usual way out of the bar towards the boardwalk.

\-------------------------------

The sun had set hours ago, and the boardwalk had been empty for about as long by the time Bucky had managed to make his way out from the city. He ran his fingers along the top board of the bench, _not tonight, buddy, gotta stay awake and get some answers_. He climbed up onto the railing, swinging his legs over the top and steadying himself before jumping. And yes, he may or may not have thought a few moments about the Serial Killing Godzilla Cockroach that he very adamantly believed lived underneath that very boardwalk, but will knock anyone the fuck out if they even try to bring that fucking topic up to him... He shrugged, considering that if there really was a legitimate way to go out of this world, that would be one hell of a story, at least, and leapt down onto the sand below.

It had been well over a year since the last time he actually spent time at any beach. Clearly, it wasn't this past summer... He tried to remember how the ocean made him feel, the memories of sandcastles and starfishes and even the way the salt felt on his skin chasing the waves in and out of their swells. He tried. He actually did. But, then it just hurt too much.

Like his entire fucking body was being shredded, flayed like some kind of, fuck, something that gets flayed. His heart being torn out from its safe little nook, all nestled in and fucking protected deep inside of him...ripped and dessimated, pieces scattering and disintegrating before he could ever think about picking them back up to put that fucking useless organ back together again. No. No fucking amount of duct tape was going to fix that heaping pile of shittiest shit. 

So, he did what he does best. He pushed out every warm, beautiful, happy memory and slammed his fucking heel down onto them, mashing them back into the fucking oblivion they deserved to live in. _Take that, warm fuzzy feelings._

He walked over towards the furthest of the two significant light posts, settling himself down into the sand, ass in sand, back to pole. Yup. And he waited. And waited. And waited. 

_Fucker decides tonight that they're gonna be late? Fanfuckingtastic._

He huffed out a sigh and let his head fall back against the pole. He watched as the waves rolled in and then back out. In and out. 

In and out.

\--------------------------------------

Steve half walked, half ran towards the boardwalk. Something about the night just set him on edge, and he hated feeling anxious like that. He knew the ocean could soothe him. Well, at least he hoped it would. 

The boardwalk was empty. The Drunken Stranger hadn't made his way to his impromptu makeshift bed, if he was even going to be spending the night there again anyways. Steve shrugged the thought off as he climbed up over the railing and jumped down to the sand. He made his way to his usual Ass Imprint on the beach and got himself settled down. 

He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, letting the salty air soak into his every pore and every nerve fiber. 

"Big fan of the ocean?"

Steve slowly opened his eyes, staring out into the water for a few moments, trying to figure out if the random voice was real or just something his imagination cooked up. He turned his head, slowly, sort of preparing himself for the identity of the gruff voice from behind him.

_Well, holy shit. The Drunken Stranger. Upright. Conscious. Wow._

"Glad to see you upright. And conscious."

_Smooth, Steve. I mean, good job thinking about the whole words thing before you speak...character development, right?_

"You didn't answer my question."

Steve narrowed his eyes. 

"Sure."

The Drunken Stranger turned his gaze back out onto the water. Steve hesitated for a moment before doing the same. 

Another few moments had passed by before The Drunken Stranger found some more words to apparently speak to Steve.

"You homeless?"

Steve didn't even bother turning around that time.

"No."

Another few moments had passed by. At this point, Steve was pretty certain that may actually have an entire conversation, with a total of maybe nine whole sentences, by the time the sun fucking came up in six fucking hours. 

"Why are you here every night?"

_Okay, seriously, you're kind of really putting a fucking damper on my night, pal. Go the fuck back up to the boardwalk and pass out already._

"Why were you sleeping on the bench the past few nights?"

Steve turned to face The Drunken Stranger then. Yeah, he kind of wanted to see the reaction out of the guy. 

The Drunken Stranger smirked. Smirked! That fucking asshole! 

Steve huffed, rolling his eyes and turned back to face the water. Fifteen minutes had to have passed by before either one of them spoke again. Of course, it was The Drunken Stranger being stupidly fucking nosy...

"Do you live down here?"

"No."

"Are you hiding from something?"

"No."

"Hmm."

There was another spread of silence between them before The Drunken Stranger spoke again.

"Then, why don't you go home?"

"Why don't you?"

Steve had turned around to stare down that last question to The Drunken Stranger. He was starting to think he wasn't going to be able to get by on being evasive to The Drunken Stranger's questions. 

The Drunken Stranger cocked his head to the side, an odd mixture of curiosity swirled in his eyes, and Steve couldn't help but he drawn to it. _That fucker..._

"What exactly happened to you?"

"Excuse me?"

"People don't come down here except for one reason. So, what's yours?"

Steve turned back to the water. Nope. Nu-huh. Not going there.

"I don't talk about me."

"Wow. Never pegged you for the selfish type."

Oh, fucking, what?! Steve snapped his head back around.

"Excuse me?!"

That fucking smirk on that fucking face. Fucking knock it the fuck off that fucking face. All of it. 

"Just was curious to see if your reason for being here was anything like mine, was only wondering what it was that made you come here, of all places."

Well, shit. Steve wasn't expecting _that_ moment of decency...or whatever that just was...

Steve huffed, letting the surge of his own defeat rush out into the night air. 

Fuck. He was going to do the one thing he always promised himself he wouldn't do...talk about himself. _Okay, be as vague as possible...I believe in you, and your stupid self._

"I didn't know I needed a reason."

The Drunken Stranger narrowed his eyes at Steve, his whole body language practically screaming at him that that was a pretty bullshit answer. Steve would completely agree. _Ugh...fine..._

"Sometimes, I guess, I think it was something kind of like life. But, I don't really wanna call it that, either."

"Hmm."

The Drunken Stranger paused, looking like his own thoughts were tripping him up.

"Why not?"

Now, it was Steve's turn to smirk. Ha!

"Not fair to life."

"Not fair to life?"

Steve couldn't help but pick up on the strained tension of disbelievement _that's totally a word_ The Drunken Stranger had at Steve's response. 

"No."

"Yeah, this I gotta hear."

Steve shifted so half of his body was now facing The Drunken Stranger. 

"Just because life hands out some shitty moments, it doesn't mean it should get a bad rap. People don't deserve that. They deserve a happy ending."

Even if Steve only half believed that statement himself, he was going to push the shit out of whatever was left of his own positivity. 

"And, yet, here you are. Why is that?"

"Unfair question."

"How is that unfair?"

"Different circumstances."

_Good job, Steve. Keep it up with being vague._

"Hmm."

_Okay, that was getting fucking annoying._

"Why do you keep doing that? Saying 'hmm', like you don't like my answers."

"Well, because I don't."

Steve's eyes grazed over The Drunken Stranger, trying to find some kind of 'tell' as to what the fuck kind of point he was getting at. Steve was pretty lost in his awesome ( _no, they weren't_ ) assessing skills that when The Drunken Stranger spoke again, it kind of startled ( _no, it made him jump_ ). 

"Why does there always have to be a happy ending?" 

"Don't you think people deserve that?"

"Doesn't matter if they do or not. Life doesn't care how good of a person you are. Sometimes, you just don't get a happy ending. That's all it is."

 _Wow._ Steve couldn't stop himself from wondering just what it was that broke this man down to what he is now. 

Steve came down to this same beach every night. Night after night after night. For this very reason. To talk people like The Drunken Stranger out of their warped realities and show them all of the beautiful things still left in the world. Just because Steve couldn't always see them didn't mean he wasn't going to do everything he could to help somebody else see them. And yes, he would break himself in half if that's what it took.

"What if I can't accept that?"

And, no, Steve wouldn't. He would find a way. 

"Well, sucks to be you, doesn't it?" 

_Clearly, you're going to make this super easy for me...huh?_


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same warnings.
> 
> Bucky and his conscience get into more fights.

One thing Bucky dramatically avoided talking about in one of his mandated "specialized support" groups, was how so many people talked about how their grieving process was significantly helped by sorting through all the crap people left behind. And, _seriously, people just have so much fucking crap._ How, when in those moments of sudden stubborn strength, did they go through clothes and, fuck, even bed sheets and fucking toothbrushes. And, when they ran their fingers through each tshirt and twirled around stupid fucking shoelaces, or some other kind of bullshit like that...and they finally found the inner peace they needed and gave away those last bits of reminders suffocating their lives. _Well, fucking good for youuuuuuuu..._

_Real fucking mature, Buck._

_Fuck off. Seriously. Nobody fucking asked you. Ever. Just fucking stop._

Bucky hated to admit it, but there was a small part of him that did admire those people who were able to grieve and cope in that way. That rush of emotions must have been so heavy, he honestly was slightly concerned about the current state of their knees. _I mean, I've heard knee replacement surgeries are only getting better and better, but honestly...wait, where the FUCK did THAT come from? Ugh. Stop with the late night infomercials..._ But, then again, there was that other part of him, the one that usually won over everything else rational or reasonable...that wanted to fucking smash each and every one of them in those same fucking knee caps. _Good, I hope they shove a foley up in you and pull it out without deflating that little balloon! No, I'm sorry. That was too aggressive..._ Not because he was that much of a violently angry person...current state of being and recent shitpile of events aside...

Bucky was so inwardly furious because he would never have that sense of closure, that inner peace. And he hated having that suffocating feeling wrapping its slimy, sticky tendrils around him, squeezing him too tightly, too often. That frustrating purgatory nestled aimlessly between being able to catch a breath after drowning for so long...and letting the water overflow inside of those lungs and let the blackness wrap itself around you. _Did that make sense? Totally made sense to me..._

Every single piece of life that would have been left as a subtle, painful reminder was burnt to the fucking ground. His entire life went up in flames. Literally. None of that figurative bullshit. Actual, literal, fire flame things. And all he had left was a distorted mind filled with even more distorted memories and a fucking heaping pile of smoldering ashes. He couldn't even run his fingers through them. He could never have that physical closure. And, of all things in his life, that would be one of the worst things he'll ever have to somehow learn how to deal with. 

Currently, he was doing a terrible fucking job at it, too. 

Having to sit in that ridiculously uncomfortable crappy plastic chair in that wonky ass slightly deformed shaped circle of the worst assembly of all the local depressed as fuck people this overly sympathetic asshole leading this bullshit talk was pushing Bucky more and more closer to that imaginary edge he was forcing himself to refrain from head diving right the fuck off of it. _Deep breath, asshole. You're thinking in run on sentences again..._

_Stop fucking telling me what to do._

_No, fucking listen. These people might actually be able to help you._

_Not._  
Fucking.  
Interested. 

\-----------------------------------

Solace. In the shitty bar. At the shitty table. Drinking the shitty shots. And the shitty beers. And the crumpled money. With the wordless exchanges with the overworked bartender. _Dude, take a night off. Someone else can get me drunk...trust me, I'm probably not gonna notice..._

_Says the guy who has noticed the bartender hasn't taken a night off..._

_...fuck, touchè._

Bucky flicked his eyes over at the tiny as fuck clock awkwardly hung up behind the bar, nestled in between half lit neon beer company signs and probably a fuck ton of spiderwebs _because this bar really is dingey as shit_. 

Shit. He spent too much time hanging out in his own self pity and slowly drowning himself in the Shitty Brand of the Day beer. _Fuck. This Fucking Intruder person, guy, man, annoying asshole is probably already down at the fucking beach and I honestly don't want a fucking audience for this shit._ He tipped back the bottle and chugged the rest of the beer, settling the empty bottle back down against the table, beside the crumpled pile of money. _Consistency, people._

He stumbled out of the bar, not actually even remotely drunk, either. _What were you just saying about consistency?_

_Seriously. You do know what I'm planning on doing to you, right?_

_Haven't done it yet._

_I like to build up the suspense. Makes it more dramatic when I finally shut you the fuck up._

Silence. 

_That's what I thought._

\-------------------------------------

Consistency. That was the running theme, apparently, for the past few nights...days...whatever. Except, instead of being consistent, the world was fucking up every specific fucking detail that surrounded that fucking consistency that Bucky was so numbly waltzing his way through. _What the fuck, really? Cut the shit. Stop fucking shit up...alright?!_

The beach wasn't fucking empty. 

No. This Fucking Intruder wasn't alone. _Seriously, Buck, learn the guy's name..._

_No. It fucking suits him. He IS being a fucking intruder..._

_You're terrible at nicknames._

_You're fucking terrible at being a fucking conscience. Stop giving me shitty fucking advice._

_You DO know what a conscience is actually for, right?_

_I don't give a shit. Aren't you supposed to be some super wise piece of shit that knows that already?!_

_I'm not the fucking Dali Lama or whoever, asshat. I'm the rational side of you, you fuckwad._

_I can see where I get my shitty nickname skills from. Clearly, it's genetic._

_Not how it works._

_Why are we still fucking talking?!_

If Bucky could find a loose plank from the boardwalk, or a fucking sledgehammer, to smash into his skull over and over right now...that would be amazing...

_Wait, what was I talking about? Before you fucking interrupted me?_

_I wasn't interrupting._

_Yes, you were._

_No, I wasn't._

_Fuck off._

_Mature._

_Have I told you lately that I appreciate all of your fucking sarcasm? Really. It brings me so much fucking joy to hear your fucking shrilly, pointless fucking jabber pounding inside of my head. Honestly. Truly a fucking gift._

_Hmph._

Oh yeah, that's right, This Fucking Intruder. On the beach. NOT alone. Who the fuck was this new intruder person? And why the fuck weren't they wearing any shoes?! 

"Did that asshole really stop that person from trying to off themselves?! That's pretty rude..."

Bucky wasn't shocked that the night air didn't respond back to him. 

_You're starting to lose it, man._

_Already happend, fuckstick._

Bucky sat himself down on that comfy, but _not fucking comfy at all_ , wooden bench between those two light posts, watching whatever the fuck was going on down on the beach continue to unfold. Yeah, if he had a bucket of some oily, buttery popcorn...this could definitely qualify for some late night overdramatic reality show type of viewing. Nielsen numbers and repeat episodes, the whole fucking thing. Classic edge of the seat viewage. _Is This Fucking Intruder gonna save this poor sap's life? Is he going to let them go ahead and drown themselves in the ocean like they had planned? Are they both gonna skip into the water and off themselves together?! Oh man, so many things could fucking happen!!_

No. They just fucking hugged. And the newer fucking intruder person just wiped their eyes and slid their shoes back on, sandy fucking toes and all, and trudged back up the beach. 

Wow. Ratings are definitely gonna drop with that fucking catastrophe of a finale, ruining any chances of a second fucking season renewal. 

Bucky watched that newer intruder person walk away from the water, back turned on all those inner demons they once had, leaving them all to drift out to sea and get lost in the waves, seemingly never to haunt them again. _Must be nice._

He watched as the newer intruder thing man person walked away across the beach, venturing off to the dark shadows on the opposite end of the boardwalk where Bucky usually stumbled in from. _Showoff._

_Mature._

_Fuck off. Therapist Lady said regression is fucking natural. Or stupidly placed anger...I wasn't really listening._

_You really need to learn her name..._

_...I really am not in the mood to be partially agreeing with you, right now. So, please stop saying things that make me partially want to. Because, that's making me want to fully kick the fucking shit out of you._

_Physics, dumbass. Actual realm of possibility. Any other science-ish proven facts that disprove you insanely easily..._

_Oh, I no longer wish to partially do anything with you. I am not above punching myself in the side of the head to get you to_

**"shut the fuck up!!"**

Whoops. That was outloud. That faded, chipped and warped line he had been teetering for the, almost, better part of a year was suddenly way too uneven. That line that kept him just that safe side of sane, allowing that very dark shadowy side of himself to stay lingering in the background, leaving him to know it's true strength and nail-digging-into-flesh grip it had on him. 

Except for when he fucking screams at himself...out fucking loud. 

"Smooth."

What? Might as well continue living up to the fucking image he just plastered out there for all of the...entirely fucking empty boardwalk to not actually notice. The Usual Fucking Intruder hadn't heard Bucky's outburst, and had calmly settled themselves back down into the sand, in their usual spot, staring back out into the ocean, acting like they hadn't just shouldered whatever fucking bullshit deadweight that other stranger let slide through their fingertips. If anyone was to ask Bucky regarding his level of jealousy at that moment, he'd probably tell them to go kindly fuck off, _no, I definitely would_ , but would very inwardly be fighting off the dumb shit of a green monster named Jealous Mother Fucker, who was attempting to kick and claw its way out from his own skin. Okay, metaphors aside, Bucky was angry. More at himself. More at the idea that anybody else can easily let the imaginary, but unbelievably real, and unbelievably heavy weights that were doing all they could do smother him to the ground, that they could let those go. And then walk away as though nothing just happened. 

Nope. He didn't understand, and he didn't attempt to quiet down the raging river of furious-ness, _use real words, please, I'm fucking begging you..._ , that was storming and thrashing inside of his veins. So, when he somehow managed to jump up from the bench, scale up the wooden railing, swing himself over and **plop** himself onto the sand below, and his feet dug maybe a little too aggressively into the sand leading himself towards the stupid fucking intruder...he wasn't completely surprised. 

"Now, either you're really obsessed with the ocean, or you were completely lying about actually living down here."

Bucky watched, hoping his words could rattle out some kind of response from the silent, statueish figure in the sand. 

Nope. Nothing.

"Oh, come on. Don't you think you're taking this whole "not talking about me" thing a little too seriously?" 

_A little response would be nice...don't be fucking rude._

Bucky shifted his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets, lifting his head away to let his eyes wander out across the ocean.

"I mean, it makes sense. Really. You come down here, talking to these people, trying to convince them that they're worth it, and everything is gonna be okay. But, you never offer anything up about yourself. Never give anything away. No, I get it. Smart. Safe."

Bucky let the silence permeate between the open air between them, let it thicken under the intentional stinging surge of his words, _like the asshole I truly am._

In all honesty, Bucky wasn't completely sure why he felt so much anger towards this random stranger, or why he was slowly becoming so fixated on them and their story, or why in the fuck did he keep coming back down to this spot the past few nights, and or why the fuck didn't he just get on with his plans, ignore anything this stranger had to say to him, and just finally let go over absolutely everything he didn't want to face anymore. What was holding him back? Why couldn't he just follow through and just end it? 

_Pretty sure you probably know that answer..._

_Fuck off. No._

_...you still wanna live, don't you?_

_Does it really seem like I want to?!_

_You're still here, aren't you?_

_Hey, remember that time when you shut the fuck up? That was a wonderful time. Let's go back to that._

_You know I'm right._

_Nobody likes a gloat._

_Odd, but I'll take that._

_Yeah, please choke yourself, in the meantime. Thanks._

Bucky stared out into the water. He watched as the waves churned in on themselves. Rolling and coiling, recoiling, ebbing and breaking. The spill of the salt, pressing down into the muddied shorelines, retreating almost as instantly, bashful and afraid to let the world see their true colors, hiding behind the swells of seafoam and mixing ocean colors. For a few moments, Bucky allowed himself to get lost in the tranquility of the water, of the sea. He had forgotten how beautiful the ocean had been. Back before the world darkened from the edges in, back before the clouds stormed over and blotted out the last rays of sunshine and light, graying his world and dulling the colors left behind. 

It was so hard to see those colors, now. And, well, Bucky didn't know how to get himself back to that point. He didn't want to try, either. He was just so tired. So fucking tired. Breathing made him tired. Seeing made him tired. Fighting off those vicious demons warring inside of him made him so fucking tired. 

But, here he stood. Hands in his pockets, eyes flickering across the waves, using up the last morsels of his inner asshole to press whatever lingering pain he had left under his skin onto this nameless stranger. Like, somehow, it was this person's fault that Bucky hadn't found it in himself to follow through with ending his own life, just so he could find a few moments of peace. 

It made no sense. He knew it. He fucking knew that. But, his mind had spent so much of these past months twisting in on itself, that navigating a seemingly straight and sensical path was just fucking ridiculous. 

Bucky must have lost time, again, _shocking_ , because, before he knew it, the sun was starting to blotch up the sky with it's obnoxious shades of pinks and purples, and That Usual Stranger was walking away from where Bucky was still standing, with his hands still shoved in his pockets. 

He huffed out a breath, watching as That Usual Stranger, _what, he needed a different name,_ walked down the boardwalk, leaving Bucky to swim in the murky shores of his own mind.

"Fuck."

\----------------------------------

The following night was filled with large raindrops and rumbling thunders from some far off distance. Bucky was sure he would finally have the beach to himself, still unknowing why this fucking spot kept pulling him back in, or that unanswered hole in his gut begging to know why he didn't actually want the beach to be empty... 

By the time that wooden bench came into view, Bucky was shivering, clothes soaked through the first two layers, at least. _Hypothermia is an option._

He climbed up the railings, swinging his legs over them, but not jumping down. He opted to sit on the top railing, maybe to give himself a different vantage point. Who the fuck knows. He was by himself. Nobody to tell him otherwise, or whatever. 

He looked out over the desolate beach, watching the raindrops crash into the sand, watching as it fades between the different contrasts of wet and, well, more wet. The shifting tides seem more harsh against the darkening sloppy shorelines, almost as though the softening wintery storm fed more fierceness into its watery veins. 

_Or maybe its just pissed that it hasn't gotten any victims to feed its stupid little dark soul..._

_No, Bucky, shut up. Just, ugh...please, stop talking, for once._

Bucky sighed. Maybe his head was right. Maybe he should just shut up for a change...just stop talking, stop overanalyzing the world, stop...

Just...stop. 

A shift of fabric under his feet pulled his attention out of his own head. 

That Usual Stranger. They were here. Tucked away underneath the overhang of the boardwalk...where Bucky had sworn a few nights ago there had been a serial killing cockroach type creature...yeah, he really needed to lay off the dark, twisted paths of his own head... 

And, yeah, please ignore that little flutter his heart just did. He must be coming down with a bad case of A-fib, or some other chronic heart disease that might make someone's heart skip a beat or two...yup, totally the reason behind that. Nope. No need to dig further into that...

_Deflect! Deflect and ignore!! Make a stupid comment! Quick! Hurry up!!!_

"So, you DO live down here."

Bucky smirked, feeling some of the rainwater drip down his cheeks, slipping between his lips. He expected to be surrounded only by the sound of the raindrops crashing around him, so when That Usual Stranger snarked back, Bucky may or may not saw his bleak little life flash before his eyes as he thought gravity was going to entirely fuck him over and smash his body to the ground. 

"No. You're just the idiot sitting in the pouring rain." 

_Ha! Touchè!_

Bucky jumped down off the railing, silently screaming a good 'ol Fuck You to gravity, falling to the ground below him willingly instead of that whole may or may not moment a few seconds earlier, and crouched down underneath the overhang of the boardwalk. He nestled himself into the still dry sand, making sure to leave a few entire body lengths between the two of them. 

Bucky pulled his legs up into his chest, wrapping his arms around his bended knees, pressing them tightly against his soaked jacket. He let them settle back into that same awkwardly comfortable silence they seemed to keep falling back into. Normally, these long lulls of emptiness would wear away on Bucky, forcing him back into his own head, letting his darkened thoughts suck and swallow him whole. But, sitting beside That Usual Stranger, his thoughts never ballooned up to the mind numbing monster they usually become. Bucky tried to not think too much on that little tidbit, either. 

_No fucking connection. Moving on..._

After a while, the rain settled into a steady pace, finding itself perfectly between the shrill of torrential downpour and the sway of a misting overcast, rhythmically pittering along the wooden planks above their heads in a soft melody around them. The sometimes clinks off the metal lamp heads, to the accentuating **drip drop** of the larger accumulated collections of water really brought the makeshift musical to life before them. 

Moments like that really pulled at Bucky...moments he didn't want to think about, didn't want to feel...

_We used to always watch these storms roll in...storms were always their favorite thing...I swear, watching these damn fucking things, it's almost like they were here..._

_No, you shut the fuck up right now. Don't. Just, don't. No._

Bucky shook his head, rustling it more underneath the damp hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his coat. 

"Bucky."

He was determined to push away those thoughts that were trying to force their way into the front of his brain. _Not gonna happen..._

That Usual Stranger picked his head up from where it had been nestled comfortably atop that same green backpack. Deep blue eyes gazed heavily over Bucky's curled in figure, either sizing him up for some epic battle, or breaking him down with some magical powers, or some bullshit like that. 

"Steve."

_Hmm. Bit of a let down with that normalcy...compared to all the interesting names I've been calling him...but, okay. Sure. Steve._

Another round of silence fell around them. Bucky still processing the boring-ish name of Steve, and half wondering if maybe this asshole was just making up some name to appease Bucky. 

_Okay, well, to be fair...Bucky sounds pretty fucking made up, too._

"What kind of name is Bucky?"

Well, shit. Steve must be able to read minds, too. 

"The kind that I go by." 

"Okay."

Steve smushed his head back into the canvas of the backpack, huffing out a puff of air, letting it wisp away into the curtain of falling rain. _You're an asshole, Bucky. Through and through._

_I'm very aware of that._

"I don't live here."

Steve hadn't moved his head to look at Bucky, but something in his voice pulled Bucky's gaze over to him. It was soft, almost childlike in it's admission, like he was ashamed and embaressed that Bucky thought he was homeless. 

"Okay." 

Fantastic continuation of the conversation. Literary scholars would be so fucking proud. 

That same silence rushed back over them. Bucky was hesitant this time, feeling uneasy under the weight of the muted world. Bucky inhaled, sharply, having realized why Steve had been down at this beach, night after night. 

_Don't get ahead of yourself there buttercup. You figured it out last night. And only because you saw him talking someone of their own ledge. So, don't act like you're fucking Sherlock all of a sudden._

_Did I fucking call myself that?_

_No, but you were fucking thinking it!_

_Get out of my head!_

_...seriously?!_

_...yeah, I fucking heard it as soon as I thought it._

Bucky exhaled, **poofing** out his own cloud of white washed breath into the rainy atmosphere. 

"You don't need to save me." 

Steve's head shot up at that. Maybe this wasn't the best way to keep the conversation going, but, well, shit, here they were. 

"Who said I'm trying to?

Bucky shifted himself to turn more towards Steve, who was almost mirroring Bucky's seated stance. 

"Yeah, you look like one of those people that needs to save the world. No matter what it ends up costing you."

Yeah, maybe Bucky had been sizing this Steve character up these past few nights, so what?

"What's wrong with trying to help people?"

"Not everybody wants the help."

Steve cocked his head to the side, deep blue eyes shimmering in the wet dimmed light around them, doing that whole sizing Bucky up again thing...

"Good thing I wasn't really trying to, then, huh?"

_Weren't expecting that answer now where you?_

_Shut up._

Steve smirked, fucking smirked at Bucky before turning back around and laying his head back down on the backpack. Bucky stared after Steve, mouth slightly open in a 'what the fuck just happened' expression. 

_Let it go._

_But, he's..._

_Just...let it go. For tonight. Please?_

_Fine._

Bucky slammed his mouth closed, hearing his teeth clash inside of his own cheeks. He turned back to face the ocean and let his chin rest ontop of his crossed forearms along his kneecaps. 

That same silence fell around them, permeated with the lulled melody of the rainfall around them. 

And that is where they both stayed, sitting next to one another, huddled underneath the flimsy protection of the boardwalk overhang above them, listening, watching, somehow still existing. 

_Thank you._

_Fuck off._

_Still a dick, cool. Good to know._


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is an Asshole.
> 
> Usual warnings.
> 
> Additional...just that Bucky needs a punch to the throat.

At some point during their stalemate in their, obviously, very interesting conversation, _yeah, total lie...sat in complete silence after my stupid statement...shocking, I know!,_ they both must have dozed off. Or, at least Bucky had. Because, next thing he knew, he was waking up with another super awesome ache in his neck, courtesy of that stupid fucking beach. 

He was still underneath the overhang of the boardwalk with his knees still loosely pulled up to his chest, and he was leaning against the bottom portion of the light post beam, where it juts into the ground, to secure itself below the sandy surface. His head was tilted, pushing into the hardened surface, and he was only slightly sure that he might actually have an indent into his skull from the way his skin throbbed over the bone.

_Or, maybe there was a dent in the light post beam...since you're so fucking thick headed..._

_How long have you been waiting to use that line?_

_About two hours ago. Just needed the rest of you to wake up._

_Don't you ever sleep?_

_...did you learn anything in school about the body?...about the brain? Weren't you a..._

_We're done with this conversation._

Bucky stretched out his legs in front of him, groaning loudly in tandem to the sharp pops his hip bones made, protesting viciously at the sudden stretch against the muscles pulling along his femurs. Fuck. He was getting old. Really fucking fast. His choice of lifestyle this past year really wasn't helping his cause, either. 

The soft swirl of ocean salt and fresh baked something permeated into his nose, into his skin. Food. Fuck. He must have slept way longer than normal, if he was being woken to the smell of food. He had always managed to sneak off the boardwalk before any of the shops actually started to open. He lifted his head away from the beam, arching his neck from side to side, half-assedly, _stop making up words, Bucky... ...shut the fuck up Conny-yeah, that's what I'm calling you now...stupid fucking Conscience...now, as I was saying...half-assedly_ trying to work out the kink in his neck. He squinted his eyes, tempted to rub at them, but remembering, hands mid-air, about his sandy mattress and blankets beneath him. Sand, plus eyeballs, never a good combination. So, he settled for grimace-y looking squints to attempt and clear the sleep from his inner soul. 

_No need to be so poetic in the morning, sunshine._

_I thought I said we were done conversating._

_I never agreed to it._

_Hmm, funny how you never seem to listen to a fucking word I say._

_Honestly, I could say the same fucking thing to you._

_I'm still not above fucking sending a left hook to my own fucking temple. Don't fucking tempt me, Conny._

_Real clever with that nickname, Buckaroo._

_Classic retort. Really. Top notch. Now, kindly, go fuck yourself._

_Mature, Barnes. Real mature._

_Hey, you keep trying to talk. I've given you plenty of easy outs. Not my fault you're too stupid to fucking take them._

_Please, I'm begging you. Go to a library. Read ANY book on Psychology...ANYTHING on how the mind works. Please. Please, oh so pretty please!_

_Does it piss you off that much?_

_Beyond anything you could possibly comprehend, apparently._

_Good._

_Ugh!_

Bucky smirked to himself. Yup. He won that round. But, just maybe, he shouldn't be laughing to himself while he's curled up under the boardwalk on some beach, clearly having had slept there, and clearly in need of a shower, like a few days ago. Giving off a real homeless type vibe...maybe just tone it down a bit. 

He flicked his eyes around at the beach in front of him, seeing if anybody really actually took notice of his less than idealistic quote unquote normal behavior. Granted, he was far from normal these days. Honestly, that whole normal ship sailed about a year ago, then crashed into some fucking shitstick of an iceberg way out in the middle of the fucking Depression Ocean and shattered into millions of prickly, misshapen pieces and sunk themselves way the fuck down to the deepest, furthest murky sea floor sectional kind of thing and buried itself under an entire army of algae and corroding whatever else. Yeah. All of that. Exactly. 

_Nobody is here, dumbass._

_I can see that. Thank you very much for very obvious observations. How have I ever gotten through life without you guiding me along the way?_

_I'm, honestly, getting to be a little worried at just how little of a grasp of the basic mental functions you clearly seem to have an extreme lack of..._

_Pretty sure whatever grasp I had on whatever mental whatever definitely didn't just happen overnight. Try to keep up._

Bucky untucked the rest of his limbs, slowly crawling out from underneath the cover of the boardwalk. Whatever passing shower from the night had long since faded away, leaving the sky with a soft, pale blue, darkening by the passing minutes, but leaving a slight chill in the still wintery morning air. He stretched out his legs, popping his arms out as well, trying to unfold the muscle memory of his unusual sleep position with minimal effect. Eh, enough for him to walk back to Sam's apartment. 

The beach definitely was empty. The boardwalk was still fairly empty, too. There were a few shops starting to open, none of the touristy spots, seeing as winter time really wasn't ideal to make any money off of the seasonal part time gawkers, or whatever someone wants to call them. He couldn't exactly pinpoint where the smell that invaded his senses earlier, but...well, he really wasn't trying all that hard to find it, either. He just wanted to get back to that tiny little bedroom at the back of Sam's apartment, bury his face under the pillows and blankets, and forget the world existed. _...okay, so it isn't exactly tiny...it's a decent sized bedroom. More than needed, really._

\------------------------------------

Bucky, more or less, swan dove into the mattress. He let his face crash down into the pillows and bury itself deep into the worn out pillowcasing as he reached beside himself to pull the comforter around his body, nestling himself into his Depression Cocoon. 

His mind started to wander, his curiosity swarming with questions about who Steve was, and why they were always down at the beach. Why was that stupid blonde trying so hard to save everyone? What was the fucking point of that? Bucky shook his head, burrowing his way even further into the pillows, tucking the blanket up and around his wild hair, and allowing himself to drift off into an unpleasant dreamless state. At least until his stupid fucking appointment with what's her name...

\----------------------------------

Bucky's eyes shifted across the walls behind Lady Therapist Person. 

_Names, Buck. People have them. Fucking remember them._

He rolled his eyes at himself, letting them land back on that same clock hung up behind Lady Therapist Person's head. _Fuck. Fifteen more minutes._ He had lost track of the time, letting the minutes tick away from him as he continued his one man stupid mission to blatantly, and very rudely, ignore the woman in front of him. 

"Can you tell me how group went yesterday afternoon? Do you feel that maybe a group setting is a better approach for you to help open yourself up?"

Bucky's eyes shifted to the wall to his right, flickering over the various awards and certificates and diplomas he had already memorized the last few times he had been in that office. 

Lady Therapist Person let out a very loud and very exhausted sigh. Her fingers curled between themselves over her lap, her gaze shifting down at them, almost working over the words she was going to say next. Bucky stole a glance out of the corner of his eye at her. The deflated exterior of Lady Therapist Person almost was enough for him to let his wall down and let her have a quick peak inside.

_I said almost. Fucking cool it..._

When Lady Therapist Person lifted her head back up, Bucky quickly shifted his focus back over to the clock behind her head. _Smooth. Subtle._ He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable that he almost had gotten caught. Caught doing what, exactly, still escaped him. Connecting? Sure, go with that. 

"James, I'm expected to give my report by the end of our next session. If you can't give me even a few words, something to go off of, I'm afraid I'll no longer be able to help you outside of a facility."

Bucky silently counted down the last few moments of his forced session. When the clock finally ticked down, Bucky bolted upright and made his way towards the door. Only, this time, Lady Therapist Person met Bucky at the door, resting her hand over his, gently squeezing over his grip on the doorknob. The suddenness and the shock of the action led to Bucky making eye contact with the concerned blue swirling in Lady Therapist Person's eyes. He wanted to pull away. He wanted to dart his eyes to anywhere but her gaze. He wanted to rip the door off its fucking hinges and sprint out of the fucking building faster than any Olympic runner in the history of running. 

But, he couldn't.

"You're not alone, James."

_Just look away. Fuck. Holy shit! Look anywhere! Turn the door handle! Do fucking anything!_

"Please, don't give up."

Her voice shook a little at that last line. It stung Bucky, deep enough to soften his hard edges, letting them roll over on themselves, recoiling a little of the angst he had been producing. He wanted to say something. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to destroy. He wanted to...he wanted to...

\-----------------------------------

By the time night had fallen, Bucky had managed to successfully do two things. One, unfurl himself from the nest of blankets and pillows. And two, avoid Sam at all cost. He felt like such a dick doing that, but he knew what Sam would say, and how he would look at him. And Bucky fucking hated that look. The look of sadness. Not a shared sadness, but a pretend understanding sadness. Eyes practicall screaming at you, "I have no fucking idea what you're going through, but I know it's a shitty situation, and you are hurting, and I'm gonna try saying the right thing, but really, there isn't a right thing to say. So, instead, I'm just gonna keep looking at you like you're gonna break and shatter into a million pieces on the floor in front of me." Bucky bit his own tongue. Yeah, he was definitely such a dick for lumping Sam into that category of Truthfully and Falsely Pitying People Party. 

Sam deserved more than that.

He was there for Bucky through it all, when everything first happened. He was the first person Bucky had called from the hospital that night. He sat with Bucky through all the final preparation bullshit and was right beside him for the wake and the funeral and the four hours afterwards when Bucky refused to leave the fresh dirt pile in the ground. Sam was the first to find Bucky barely alive after Bucky had drank himself to practically bordering death, fully clothed, in the bathtub. Sam was the one who pushed on his chest to force the bathwater out of Bucky's lungs before the medics showed up. Sam was the first one to visit Bucky in the hospital, not forcing conversation, but rather, just being there with him. 

Sam was there for Bucky through everything. 

And Bucky was being an Asshole to him. Trademark symbol and everything. Limited edition pressing. Only one copy sold. Certified Legit Asshole. Yup. 

But, the sun had settled way past the horizon, stars pretended to exist under the overcast of the hazy city lights, and Sam had long since gone to bed hours ago. And, again, Bucky was an asshole. 

When he climbed up off the mattress, Bucky was slightly shocked that he was still fully clothed. He had forgotten he climbed into bed even with his jacket and shoes on. Oops. Oh well. 

He tiptoed out of the apartment, thankful he had always been so light on his feet. When he reached the sidewalk outside the apartment, the rush of cool air felt good in his nose, in his lungs. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat and trudged along the empty pavement, heading back towards that boring boardwalk. 

\-------------------------------------

That Stranger...no, Steve, was sitting in his usual place on the beach. _What fucking time does this shithead show up?_ Bucky climbed over the railing, jumping down to the sand below, trekking his way across the surface until he was side by side to Steve. He lowered himself down to the ground, mimicking Steve's position, letting his own eyes gaze out into the darkened ocean before them. 

"Fancy meeting you here."

Bucky smirked, hoping his sarcasm came across as dry humor. 

"Yup."

_Nope. That wasn't gonna happen._

Bucky stole a glance out of the corner of his eye, seeing if Steve gave way to some sort of body language that could tell him if, maybe, Steve was relaxed and just returning Bucky's sarcasm back to him. 

Nothing.

_Well, fuck._

They fell into an oddly comfortable silence. The sounds of the waves crashing against each other being the only noise surrounding them. 

"How many people have you stopped?"

Bucky turned his head to look at Steve. Steve slowly turned his own, meeting Bucky's gaze. 

_Holy shit, those are some blue eyes..._

"What?"

"How many people?"

Bucky let the question linger, wondering just how painfully more obvious he could actually be. Clearly, this Steve guy just wasn't understanding it.

"I know you've kept track. Someone like you...yeah, you definitely kept track."

Steve's eyes glared forcefully into Bucky, a silent challenge, or a silent wondering as to exactly what made Bucky who he was. They both kind of look the same, sometimes. 

"43."

_Sort of impressive._

_Shut up. Not the point of this conversation._

_Exactly what IS the point of this conversation?_

_Just watch._

"43, huh? Wow."

Bucky shrugged his shoulders, nodding his head in unison, faking an impressed reaction.

_Faking?_

_Fuck off._

"How do you know you actually saved them?"

"What?"

Steve just stared at Bucky. Well, if Bucky is going to continue on his Asshole streak, he might as well crack his metaphorical knuckles and just get right to it.

"How do you know you actually saved them? I mean, did you really think that just because you told them their life was worth living, there's always hope, or some other bullshit cliche line and you walked them up to the boardwalk and sent them on their merry little way...that you completely, one hundred percent saved them?"

Bucky just held Steve's blank stare of absolute disbelief.

_You ready for this? For the finale?_

_Please, don't do this._

"How do you know they didn't just go home and find some other way to off themselves?

_Take a bow!_

_Wow. Just wow. Go fuck yourself, Barnes. Who the hell even are you, anymore?_

_Nobody worth the effort. Why doesn't anybody seem to get that?!_

Steve had turned his head back out to the ocean, mouth clenched, muscles twitching along his jawline. He sat a few moments, letting the uncomfortable silence stretch into the miles, now, between them. 

Steve abruptly stood, hand clutching the green canvas backpack, turning so quickly on his heel that he kicked up sand behind him as he trudged up the beach to the boardwalk without a word. Bucky twisted, turning himself so he could watch as Steve marched off into the darkness still around them. 

_What exactly did that fucking prove? Aside from the fact that you're an absolute fucking asshole?_

_That he can't fucking save people if they don't want it._

_Well, here's your shining fucking moment. Nobody here to stop you. Go on. You've been waiting for this, stop fucking dragging your feet._

And Bucky sat there until the sun broke out from below the horizon, until the sky lightened and people started to trickle along the boardwalk, until the sun was highest in the sky and he was still there. 

He was still there.


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual warnings.
> 
> Some more talking.  
> Some more awesomeness that is Sam.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it.  
> Let me know what you think.  
> Comments are always appreciated. (Let's me know if this jumbled mess makes sense!)

The days, well, mostly nights, had all started to blend into one another. Bucky was finding himself going through the motions, all the same as before, but this time, with an intensified numbness that he wasn't even sure he could feel at that point. He was certain all the emotions and sensations left to viciously incapcitate him had already reached their max potential. Clearly, he was wrong. 

And, even though he wasn't so much as feeling really anything anymore, the lack of feeling was just as painful, if not more. _Who the fuck knew that not feeling things would hurt this bad?_ His body and soul and shattering heart all might have forgotten how to feel and function, but his fucking mind definitely didn't get that fucking memo. Damn fucking thing wouldn't shut the fuck up. Maybe that was his endless torture? Maybe that was his new hell? 

He grumbled to himself, honestly not giving a shit if it was outloud anymore, _fuck what fucking strangers walking past me fucking think,_ as he made his way towards that same fucking section of beach. 

_Couldn't do it last night, could ya?_

_Go fuck yourself._

_Ha, I think the words you're looking for are 'I told you so'. But, I'll take whatever variation you'd like._

_How about, 'Go fuck right the fuck off'? Does that fucking work? I'm not in the mood._

_Are you ever?_

Ah, yes. Some more grumbling. Some more muttered cursing. _Really changing things up, aren't we?_ Bucky swung his legs up, climbing over the railing of the boardwalk, having not even really noticed when he even arrived to the beach at all, landing routinely on the sand, trudging his way towards the water. 

The shadowy silhouette almost blended seamlessly into the salty shorelines. Bucky's mind took a few moments to catch up, _Thought you were supposed to be all smart and quick, or some shit like that? Fucking slacking..._

 _...been kind of busy watching over your dumb ass. Excuse me for being preoccupied._ , realizing it was Steve, already in his usual place, in his usual position, with his eyes staring wonderously out into the sea.

Part of Bucky wanted to know what Steve saw when he looked out into the water. He wondered if it was anything like what Bucky saw...an end. A depth where nothing painful in this world could ever reach him. A solitude of silence, buried underneath the press of the hydrostatic pressure, slowly allowing it to build and suffocate against the body's frail frame. Bucky yearned for that pressure, that suffocation, that crush, just so, maybe, he could feel something again...find some reprieve from the stinging numbness.

Bucky quietly walked towards where Steve sat, lowering himself down to the ground, pulling his own knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs, letting his overactive mind trail out and splash around in the waters in front of them. 

A noisy silence settled in between them. Steve hadn't so much as even glanced over at Bucky when Bucky first sat down. Not even a position change or throat clearing. Nothing. And Bucky wasn't going to open his dumb mouth again, knowing something absolutely ridiculous would slide right on out, with impressive speed and devastating consequences. 

_Wow. Character development._

_Shut up._

Before Bucky knew, the sun was poking itself up out of the water, splashing faint yellows and pinks into his gray washed blues. He wondered, quickly, what color the blue of Steve's eyes had shifted to, before shaking his own head and willing that unnecessary thought and faint image out of his head. _Uhm, what?!_

"Hungry?"

The words flipped and somersaulted and fucking backtucked right the fuck out of Bucky's mouth before his slow-as-shit brain could stop himself. Fuck. He broke that awkward silence between himself and Steve, and now he was stuck, sitting beside him, having to wait for an answer. Not that Bucky actually really deserved anything from Steve, at all. Not the way Bucky had been acting the night before. To be honest, Bucky was surprised Steve actually spent all night beside Bucky. He was so fucking sure the first moment Steve saw Bucky, he would have gotten up and stormed off, refusing to even be within a thousand mile radius of Bucky. 

_Dammit. Who the fuck is this guy?!_

Bucky tried to calm down the growing urge to get to know whoever the fuck this Steve guy was. _Focus on what you keep coming here to do..._ Bucky shook out his head, looking up in time to watch Steve walk away, without having said a word back to Bucky. 

Bucky turned back to face the water, squinting slightly in the brightening morning light.

"I take that as a 'no', then." 

\--------------------------------------

Steve sped-walked across the planks of the boardwalk, quickening his steps to make his escape away from that Bucky guy. The words from the night before still ringing in Steve's head, stinging almost as painfully as he first heard them. Even as he turned them over and over again in his head for the forty-ninth time, seriously, they still stung. It was always a major fear to Steve, that his actions on the beach, night after night, wouldn't really make a difference.

Failing someone at their lowest point was what brought Steve there in the first place, knowing far too well how it felt to watch as someone slipped just out of his reach and drowned under the weight of whatever they let haunt them. And, it was something Steve vowed to try and make sure never happened to anybody else. Ever. Again. 

And, to this point, Steve thought he was doing a damned good job of it. Forty-three people, Steve had met and talked to, listened to their stories in such a brief moment, but was able to show them the colors of the world they had forgotten about. Show them that they still had so much left to offer. Show them that this was not the way out. And Steve watched them all walk back up to the boardwalk, and back to their own worlds, their own lives, with a slight straightening of their spines, a slight shift in the way their shoulders no longer hung forward, the slouch in their demeanor shifting as though Steve could see the invisible weights disintegrate into the air around them just watching each and every person's body finally learn how to breathe again. 

Then, this Bucky asshat happened. 

And Steve couldn't figure him out. 

Steve could see the pain in him. It wasn't even in the storminess of those damn fucking grayish blueish eyes peering out at him. It was in the downturn of his lips. As though all Bucky knew how to do was frown. It was in the subtle tremor of his fingers. As though Bucky needed some kind of something, but didn't know what, and the build up was so deeply buried, so aggressively churning inside of his skin, that his body had begun to vibrate with the anticipation for a release. It was in the sorrow echoeing around Bucky's words. Even with the sarcasm and deflecting tactics, Steve could feel the sadness permeating inside of Bucky.

But, Steve could tell Bucky had built up some wall, some barrier between himself and the world, refusing to let anyone in. Steve hadn't expected to actually be let in. No. He knew, he expected, he understood that the people he found roaming this section of the beach weren't always going to accept Steve easily. Steve actually, almost always, anticipated a fight. A battle of pure stubbornness and willpower. 

Thankfully, Steve had an abundance of those, himself. 

But, the words Bucky said to him, knocked him down a few flights of stairs. What if he wasn't making a difference after all? What if he just stopped trying? What if he let the universe keep forcing it's way into those stranger's lives, and pushing them into an early sleep? What if Steve was the one actually fucking everything up by meddling? 

What if this was the universe's way of forcing Steve to relive the worst moment of his entire life over and over and over again? 

_No! Fuck that guy. He doesn't know shit about me. Whatever. I don't even care anymore. He doesn't wanna be saved, then fine!_

\---------------------------------------

It was still early in the morning when Bucky got back to Sam's apartment. He kept his footsteps light, hoping to not wake up Sam. Bucky had been such a dick to him since getting out of the hospital, the least he could do was let the guy sleep on his day off. 

Bucky turned the key, cracking the door slightly, slowly stepping in without letting the hinges creak with the motion. He slid his shoes off, toeing them over on the mat before turning into the still kind of dimmed living room. 

He froze.

Sam was sitting on the couch, flipping through some magazine, still in his sleep clothes. He flipped a page and glanced up to Bucky, before turning his attention back down to the magazine. 

"Hey, man. What's up?"

Sam's voice was so calm, so carefree. Bucky cringed internally, preparing himself for the guilt trip he knew he was about to fucking joyride the fuck on down. 

"Uh, hey. What are you doing up?"

Still frozen to the spot he was in, midstep, paralyzed and glued to the fucking floor, Bucky blinked at Sam. Who was still casually flipping the pages of the magazine like whatever truth bombs he was tossing into the air towards Bucky's direction weren't ready to fucking explode all around the damn fucking living room. Bucky half expected to see Sam spinning the pins of the imaginary grenades on his index finger, whistling out some tune, leaned back on the couch with some shit eating grin on his face. _Okay, that might have been overkill, but whatever. Shut up. It fits._

Sam flipped the last page of the magazine over, tossing it closed onto the coffee table in front of him. He shifted on the couch, letting his elbows rest onto his knees, slowly bringing his gaze up to Bucky. 

"Couldn't sleep."

"Oh."

Bucky swallowed the ginormous iceberg sized lump in his throat. 

"Think we could talk?"

Bucky damn near fucking choked on that same lump. _Fuck..._

"Oh. Uhm, yeah, sure. Okay."

It took all of Bucky's strength to move his legs. It felt as though someone had poured concrete around his lower half, and then shoved a bunch of bolts and nails and chains and probably some other stuff there, all working together to keep Bucky immobile. His steps were sluggish, still dragging the concrete with him with each step. He lowered himself down into the space on the couch, between Sam and the armrest. 

Sam intertwined his fingers. Bucky couldn't help but notice the quick, subtle worry that seeped out of Sam. It unnerved Bucky. Sam had always been so calm, so unflustered by practically every single thing in life. And Bucky had known him for a long, long time. Sam's easy going nature was what drew Bucky to him so long ago. Sam was the necessary opposite to Bucky's sporadic and, often times, head in the clouds, dreamer personality. Shocking, huh? To know Bucky had such vibrancy to him. That he saw the colors and beauty all around him, in a way nobody else seemed to ever understand. Bucky never needed to understand. No. He just needed to see the world, to feel it, to breathe it. 

It was that moment that Bucky realized just how difficult this shift must have been for Sam. _Shit..._ He was so lost in his own head for all the things he had lost, that he had forgotten to take into account the loss Sam must now be dealing with. Sure, Sam felt the very same loss as Bucky, having been such a massive part in that section of Bucky's life. But, he was now stuck with the dulled out carcass of what Bucky used to be. Grayed and frayed around the edges. A ghostly shadow of the friend he grew up with. And, fuck, that realization absolutely shattered the last speck of resolve Bucky had had.

"I'm worried about you, man."

_Double shitty shit fuck._

"I'm okay. Really."

It was Bucky's turn to play with his fingers in his lap. He felt his shoulders hunch. He was trying to play it off as though he was really okay, but...well, _Sam has known you your entire fucking life. He knows when you're fucking lying..._

Bucky looked back up to Sam. _Yup. Fucking transparent. He sees right through you, dipshit._

"Yeah, that shit ain't gonna work with me. I know you figured out how to play the system at the hospital. Whatever to get you out. I know what you're thinking about doing, too. I'm not fucking stupid."

Well, shit, that damn lump was back in his throat. Sam barely let a moment pass before he started in again.

"I'm not gonna even try to pretend to understand what you're going through. There's no way I possibly could. But, you gotta remember, I feel the loss every day, too. And, it fucking kills me that I gotta watch you slip back away from me, man. I still remember everything about your first try. And, then, having to find you again? It's seriously the worst fucking horror version of groundhog day. And I know I have no fucking right to say that, to you. I know you're living your own satan fucking version of groundhog day, but, you gotta let me in, man. You gotta let somebody in. You can't do this alone."

Bucky could barely swallow, especially not with that blatant fucking hitch to Sam's voice. 

"You're not alone."

Bucky just stared, unable to talk. The weight of the Titanic sinking iceberg sized lump in his throat pushing too much pressure on his voicebox, rendering him speechless for what felt like several eternities. 

"I need you to know that I'm here for you. I always have been. I always will be. No matter what. I'm never gonna give up on you, man. I know I keep saying it, that I'll never understand what you're going through, but I'm here to listen. Anything you ever wanna talk about. I know it's gonna take a while before you can talk about that night, and talk about what happened to..."

"Stop. Please."

Bucky knew those weren't the words to say. He knew Sam was just being the damn awesome fucking person and friend that he was, but Bucky just couldn't. Not that.

"Buck, you can't keep closing yourself off. Not talking about her..."

"Please, Sam. Please!"

_When did I start crying?!_

Bucky's voice waivered, shaking violently against the lining of his throat, echoeing inside of his jumbling mind. No. No. He can't go there. He just can't.

"I..."

Sam opened his mouth, ready to try again, tears forming along the ridges of his own eyes as he watched Bucky fall apart beside him. He closed it again, letting out a resigned sigh. 

"Okay. Okay, I'm sorry."

Oxygen still was being a bitch about locating Bucky's lungs, tripping its way in through his gasping mouth and flaring nostrils. Another several eternities passed by before Bucky could actually feel the solid structure of the couch beneath him. Sam must have noticed.

"Hungry?"

\--------------------------------------

Sam had cooked a decent sized breakfast for Bucky and himself. Bucky really didn't want to eat, but his stomach betrayed him, and he knew it would appease the concern in Sam's soft eyes. They spent the rest of the morning watching a few movies, letting their old routines slide back in without either of them really noticing. Bucky had barely realized that fucking Connie wasn't yapping away between his ears, and the world was kind of quiet for a few hours. 

Mid-afternoon bled seamlessly in from the morning, and Sam was in the kitchen again, tossing together whatever foods for a late lunch. He was stirring something in one of the pans on the stove, body half turned towards Bucky, who was hunched over at one of the stools at the island in the middle of the kitchen space.

"Where do you go every night?"

The sudden curiosity spiked through Bucky, piercing its way into his bones. 

"I know you haven't slept here since you got out. And I haven't gotten any calls about having to come and bail you out of jail, at least for the last ten years."

Sam let out a small laugh, not enough to show that he wasn't truly feeling the weight of the severity of Bucky's situation, but enough to at least pretend. 

"Just walking around."

Sam stopped mid-stir, turning his head to look at Bucky over his slightly angled shoulder. 

"Dude, it's winter. It's, like, 20 degrees outside. And you're just out, walking around? Taking in the sites?"

Bucky shrugged his shoulders. He knew if he told Sam where he had been going _since he hid the fucking gun!_ that Sam would definitely up his game on keeping tabs and having heartfelt conversations with him. 

"Yeah. You really do suck at lying, you know that?"

Bucky let the corner of his mouth lift into a smirk, shrugging his shoulders again. Sam pulled two plates down from the cabinet above his head, plating the content of the pans onto them evenly, sliding one plate over to Bucky.

"Whatever. Eat."

They watched some more movies, Bucky thankful that Sam seemed to have dropped the idea of prying out whatever truths from Bucky that he was currently internally online shopping for the latest and greatest advanced lock he could find to replace the battered one he had been using the past year or whatever. The sun had long since settled behind the buildings out the window in the living room. 

Sam rose up from the couch, stretching out his back, arching his chest towards the ceiling and letting a lengthy yawn escape him. 

"Man, I gotta go to bed."

His bare feet slapped across the wooden floorboards as he made his way to the hallway towards the bedrooms. He ducked into the darkness of the unlit hallway, and reemerged a few moments later, tossing a thick scarf and a pair of gloves to Bucky, hitting him in the face and having them fall into Bucky's lap. 

"It's supposed to get cold again tonight. Try and stay warm. Frostbite won't look good on you."

Sam smiled at Bucky, reserved and still lacking its usual lightness, but the heartfelt concern and love was still there. Bucky let a quick smile spread across his own lips in return, unconcerned about the fact that he was going to force his body into a below freezing atmosphere for the next few hours, but slightly allowing himself to feel the warmth from Sam's unwaivering bond and protectiveness he had with Bucky. 

It ended as quickly as it came. 

And Bucky was alone again. Sitting in the living room. On the couch. Watching something left on the tv. He huffed and pulled himself up, sliding back on his shoes and jacket, begrudgingly wrapping the scarf around his neck, but tossing the gloves back onto the couch before heading out the door. 

\-------------------------------------------

Steve was already sitting on the beach by the time Bucky climbed over the railing from the boardwalk. Bucky made his way over to him, sitting down beside him like he had been doing the last few days. 

They had sat there in the same silence for a while, but not the same staticky silence from the night before. It was that soft, comfortable silence, where nothing needed to be said. 

"When it gets cold like this, at night, the stars shine so much brighter. You get to see all the ones you usually end up missing."

Steve's voice was quiet, barely interrupting the silence spread between them, but nearly shouting against it. 

"Kind of funny, isn't it?"

Bucky slowly turned his head to look at Steve, who was still looking out over the water, chin slightly tilted up. Bucky figured he must be looking out where the water swallows the sky, reflecting the sparkling stars across the waves. 

"What is?"

Steve shifted, letting out a breath of swirling white exhale, letting his shoulders roll down as he tucked into himself even more than he already had been. Bucky wasn't sure if he was closing himself off, or trying anything he could to keep himself warm in the cold temperature. 

"How so many people can miss something so beautiful, just because it means you have to be a little uncomfortable to see it."

Bucky couldn't help but stare. Here was this guy, someone Bucky had gone to great lengths to, basically, insult just the other night, who gave him the fucking silent treatment the night before, and now, was sparking some existential cosmic whatever kind of conversation with him.

"Guess that kind of applies to a lot of things, huh?"

Steve slowly turned and faced Bucky, a small smile playing at his lips. He looked at Bucky, not with an expected gaze, though. Bucky was taken even more back by the fact that Steve wasn't expecting Bucky to reply to him. 

"I think people find comfort in seeing things in black and white, finding comfort in the routine. So much of the world can be seen in black and white. It's easier, y'know, to see it that way."

Bucky's voice was steady, soft, trying to match the wondering rhythm Steve's, using every ounce of himself to keep his words even, removing every ounce of sarcasm. 

"There's always some gray, though. Scattered in with all of those definitive lines. Even if you mix all that black and white, you still end up getting gray."

Steve's face was turned towards Bucky, smoothed out lines lightly creasing along his forehead, but eyes open, inviting, searching. Bucky wasn't sure what to do with that...that openness, that stillness.

"I don't know what to do with gray."

Bucky turned back to look out to the water.

"Not anymore, at least."

Bucky muttered the last few words, feeling the weight of his tongue sliding across his teeth. Bucky hated that bullshit gray area Steve was talking about. It was the same place he had been living in for the last year, now. Not having an answer. Not having a reason for what happened. Not having a direction to go. He fucking hated it, and hated it more and more every fucking day. 

They sat in that same silence again, shifting back and forth between comfortable and soothing, rocking and ebbing like the crashing waves. Bucky ran back over the idea of how his world had been muddied by all the gray dullness forced upon him, and suddenly felt he needed...away. His whole body shivered, in a way the cold temperature couldn't reach. He needed something to take his churning mind away from itself. Something. Anything.

"Why this stretch of beach? Why not fifty yards that way? Or twenty feet that way? Why right here?"

_Ask about the shoes!_

"There's uhm, actually a drop off, just past the patch of corals, that meets where the undertow swells so it creates the perfect current where you can't swim out of it. You can drown before you'll ever know which way is up. That's if you don't get cut up by all the coral first before you even make it out there..."

Bucky slowly turned his head back to look at Steve. He could see the way Steve's body tensed, even buried under the thick wintery layers of his clothes. The way his gloveless fingers dug into the fleshy meat of his thighs, pressing his legs closer into his own chest, like he was physically locking away some secret that might slip out if he wasn't looking. And the way his voice spread dully across the space between them, almost as though Steve had been reciting something from memory...

...something just as painful as Bucky's own. 

Maybe, just maybe, Bucky will stick around for another night, or two. Just to see if it really was... _What's another night of putting off the inevitable? Not gonna make a difference when it's all going to end, anyways._

_Right?_


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky POV.  
> Steve's POV.
> 
> Some half eaten burgers and half chewed up french fries.
> 
> And, Bucky's dazzling personality shines through, again.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

When the morning sun came, and Steve rose to his feet, brushing away the sand from his clothes, shouldering his backpack, Bucky just looked up questioningly. Steve smirked, nodding his head, silently asking Bucky to follow along behind him. And Bucky went, without question. 

They both climbed up over the railing, feet hitting the planks of wood. Steve turned and faced out over the water, arms crossed and bent, supporting his weight on the top beam of the railing. Bucky looked over, wondering for a moment why the pause, but mirrored Steve's position, gazing out along the water as well. 

The sun was just starting to peek it's way out from the depths of the water, painting the sky with the softest hues of purples and pinks, bleeding their way into oranges and blues. Pillowy white clouds scattered gently along the horizon, giving soft comfort to the slowly sleeping stars.

"Do we go somewhere?"

Steve's voice was barely above a whisper. And, in that moment, where Bucky had lost himself to the easiness between the two of them, almost forgetting the unyielding weight pressing atop his shoulders.

"What do you mean? You hungry? I could probably do a couple burgers. I know it's early, but there's a place just..."

He had been absentmindedly rubbing a small circle around his stomach, silently questioning the actual last time he had eaten real food, aside from what Sam had been practically shoving down his throat, when Steve had interrupted him. 

"No. Do you think we go somewhere? When we die?"

Bucky froze. That same weight suddenly pressing harder, sagging his shoulders back down, dampening his mind with the same thoughts that had been swallowing him for so long. He turned, looking at Steve, who still hadn't broken his stare down with the water in front of them. 

"I think...thinking that way...helps some people. Yeah, sure."

_Way to be coy about it..._

_Fuck off._

Bucky turned, looking back out over the water, churning his own words over in his head, again and again. 

"What do you think?"

Bucky looks down at his hands, twisting them together, hesitating before looking back up at the water, narrowing eyes out to the sea, refusing to look at Steve, fearing that maybe, just maybe, Steve would shatter the illusion Bucky had created that Steve was his last glimmer of hopefulness left in his deeply darkened world. 

"No."

_Well, fuck._

\--------------------------------------

Bucky wasn't completely hungry, per se, especially after their brief conversation about afterlife and all that fun-ness. But, after somehow managing the both of them to awkwardly and silently make their way to the little Mom and Pop diner a few blocks down from the boardwalk, Bucky couldn't just let his plateful of greasy fries and and even greasier burger go to waste. Maybe, being just past sunrise, was probably too too early for a burger, but his whole not sleeping schedule twisted whatever version of an appetite he may have once had. 

_You're not really a picture perfect version of mental stability, anyways._

_I'm aware. Thanks._

He lifted the burger up, watching as pink tinted globs of grease dripped out from the underside of the bun, splashing down against a few of his lightly salted fries. His teeth bared and dug into the doughy bread, grinding and tearing away the layers of lettuce and cheese and meat, squishing together along his tongue. 

_Maybe that was too big of a bite..._

_You might be right..._

Bucky dropped the burger back onto the plate, really focusing on mashing the way too big of a bite of burger around in his mouth, without giving it away that he might possibly be slightly choking himself. He blinked away the tears that his own gag reflex brought up, looking over at Steve across the table. 

Those big blue eyes were gazing far off, peering through the large window beside them. The commotion of the street and sidewalks seemed to have pulled Steve's attention from his own plate of food in front of him. His own burger and fries were left untouched. Steve's long fingers were pinched over the white straw in his drink, twirling around and around in the small ocean of ice and water. Bucky tried to follow where Steve's eyes had been staring deeply into, but, after trailing along and finding himself even more lost than before, he gave up. 

His mind ran back over their conversation from a few nights ago. Bucky had been trying to find some reason for why they were even still purposely running back into one another, night after night after night. Bucky knew why he kept coming back. Okay, just don't ask him about why he hasn't gone through with his plan, yet...because, well, that...he doesn't actually have an answer to. But, that only pressed further into Bucky's head. 

_People go to that beach to off themselves. They go out into the water and get pulled down by the undertow. Nobody has ever said anything about the reefs. Nobody even knows about them...How could they...Unless..._

Bucky gulped down his food. 

"How did you know?"

Steve paused, froze. His fingers still pinched against the straw, the ice clinking against the sides of the red plastic diner cup. His eyes still staring out the large window, unblinking before almost twitching in fear of his own response that was bubbling beneath his tongue and teeth. An overly forced breath escaped from deep inside of his chest before he slowly slid his eyes across the table to look up at Bucky.

"What?"

Bucky brushed his hands together, wiping away the excess whatever of food still left lingering along his calloused skin. He pushed the plate to the side, leaning in and resting his elbows against the fake wooden table top. 

"How did you know?"

Steve released his fingertip death grip on the straw, slowly letting gravity drop his hand down onto the tabletop beside his other, fingers lazily intertwining with each other. A certain steel-like wall crashed down behind those blue eyes, rigidity settling in beneath Steve's bones. 

"About?"

Bucky couldn't hell the exhausted and slightly dramatic sigh that escaped him, eyes rolling around in his skull. _Asshole knows exactly what I mean..._

"About the reefs."

Steve's hardened stare faultered, flicking to the space just behind the right side of Bucky's head, before refocusing back into Bucky's own eyes. 

"It's...they...it was in the papers. The reports. A bunch of 'em talked about it."

Bucky just shook his head, gaze unwaivering. 

"No, it wasn't."

Steve sucked in a deep breath. He sat back in his seat, hands still resting on top of the table, still with his fingers intertwined, but becoming tighter in their hold within themselves, skin stretching and knuckles whitening. His voice rising, just slightly.

"Yeah, it was. The undertow, the drop off, the reefs. Everybody knows about 'em. They were in the reports."

Steve overenunciated the last words, setting his jaw back into a tightened clench. He turned his head, staring back out the window, shoulders straightening. 

Bucky refused to let it go. He leaned in even further, the edge of the table pressing further into his chest. 

"The drop off and the undertow, yeah. Everybody does know that. But, not the reefs. That was never..."

Steve's head snapped back, eyes narrowed and deep blue glaring angrily into Bucky's gray. His voice was flat and void of any emotion. 

"Yes, it was."

They stared at one another for a moment. Bucky refusing to lower his gaze, from too much curiosity. Steve refusing to lower his, from some unsettled anger burning just below the surface. Bucky shifted, leaning in even closer, painfully closer, as the edge of the table dug more into his ribs and constricting his lungs from properly expanding. He dropped his voice, now barely even above a whisper.

"What happened, Steve? What aren't you telling me?"

Steve stared back at Bucky. His entire body was stiff. Bucky was almost concerned at stillness from Steve, only finding the small sliver of relief seeing Steve's chest rapidly rising and falling with each breath Steve was taking. 

That moment, Bucky knew he probably should have let whatever he was digging for go. But, again, Bucky wasn't exactly in the best frame of mind for making decent and appropriate decisions. 

He kept his voice at just a soft whisper. 

"How did you know about..."

Steve jumped up out of the booth, startling Bucky and the few other diner patrons around them. Steve stomped towards the door, pausing just before he reached the handle and shuffling back to the table. He leaned in, losing his footing slightly so that he had to catch himself with his knee on the bench seat of the booth while he retrieved his jacket that had been tucked over in the corner. He pushed himself back up, turning towards the door again. 

He paused midstep, turning back and grabbing hold of his drink, swallowing down the rest of the water in three large gulps. He gave Bucky one last glare before grabbing a handful of his own previously uneaten fries and finally made his way towards the door. He gripped the handle and pried the door open, the bell above chiming loudly as Steve aggressively pulled the door closed behind him. 

Bucky stared at the diner door, eyes widened still in the slight state of shock. He leaned over, just catching Steve outside the large diner window running across the street. He shook his head, shaking himself out of the shock still settling down on him. He slid out from the bench seat, digging his hand into a pocket of his jeans to drop a few crumpled dollar bills on the table, grabbing his jacket and making his way towards the diner door. 

He swung his jacket over his shoulders, sliding his arms in the sleeves as he managed to dodge through the oncoming traffic and ran across the street to the other sidewalk, the same one Steve had crossed over to. 

Bucky could still make out the backside of Steve from a few feet down the stretch of the sidewalk. A car passing by just as Bucky stepped up to the curb honked its horn at Bucky, who instinctively turned, arms spread out wide and a few choice words sliding past his tongue, his true city born attitude floating to the surface and letting itself truly known be known in that moment before the car sped off. He turned and faced back towards the direction Steve was speed walking away from him down. He cupped his hand over his mouth, yelling, hoping to project his voice enough to reach over the growing crowd of people.

"Steve!"

He watched as Steve quickened his pace.

_Son of a bitch..._

Bucky started jogging, hoping to catch up with Steve, to at least, maybe, apologize. Or, get an answer. _No. Definitely the apology. But, if Steve wanted to share the answer, that would be okay, too..._

Bucky had managed to weave his way through the mass of city folk, catching a glimpse of Steve shoving the remaining handful of fries in his mouth as he rounded a corner from one of the buildings on the street, ducking his way down one of the wider alleyways. 

Bucky increased his pace, feet skittering and body twisting to avoid the last few people that snuck their way in between himself and the entrance to the alleway. He finally made it to the corner, huffing out a breath of air as he turned down the alleyway. 

Steve had managed to keep a good enough distance between the two of them, keeping his own quickened pace. Bucky cupped his hand over his mouth again.

"Steve! Hey! Stop!"

When Steve's footsteps didn't slow and all Bucky could see was Steve pulling his jacket closer around his body, Bucky broke out into a full on sprint. 

"Steve, please. Would you just...

Bucky was within arms reach. He extended his hand out, grabbing onto Steve's arm just above where his elbow was, turning Steve to face him. Steve tugged his arm away, aggressively breaking free from Bucky's hold. Steve's cheeks were puffed out, mouthful of fries, but his eyes were wide, fury bleeding across them and out towards Bucky. 

"Whaf do ooo..."

Steve paused, mouth half open. He turned, spitting out the wad of fries partially chewed in his mouth, letting it fall with a wet **splat** on the grounf away from them. Bucky watched it fall to the ground, muttering under his breath.

"Well, ugh. C'mon. Was that really necessary?"

He absently waved his hand in the space between them, eyes still fixed on the blob of half eaten food. 

Steve's glare hardened back again, staring intensely towards Bucky. 

"What do you want?"

Bucky's eyes flickered back to Steve. He shifted his stance, angling himself so he was directly facing Steve. 

"You knew about the reefs..."

Bucky shifted his weight on his feet, his voice lower a fraction. 

"...because you went in there. Didn't you?"

As much as Bucky had tried to keep the stinging tinge of accusation from coating along his words, the way Steve broight his arms up, crossing over his chest in his own subconscious way to protect himself, Bucky knew he failed at doing so. 

"You don't understand."

_You're damn right I don't understand._

Bucky could have easily gotten whiplash from how quickly he sprung from curiousness to absolute furious rage at those three words. This entire time, he had been believing that Steve was down on that beach to help people out, to bring them back from whatever edge they were on. That there was still whatever left in this world to stick around for. And, it had all been a fucking lie, an illusion. Steve had been just as low as everybody else, but was only stuck on this shitty fucking planet because some stupid fucking patch of reef kept him from going over that underwater ledge. 

Bucky's mouth opened and closed, trying to figure out what words to spew out first. He ran a hand down over his face as he started to pace the width of the alleyway. 

"Wow. Just...wow."

Bucky stopped, turned on his heel to face Steve, who was still silent, arms pressing closer and closer against his chest, just staring ar Bucky. 

"Seriously?"

Steve just looked at him, eyes wide but laced with a certain sadness Bucky couldn't place. He watched as Steve bit at his lower lip, noticing the slight tremble to it. 

"No, just listen. It's not what..."

Bucky waved his hand between them, scoffing loudly, echoeing against the bounce of the building surfaces around them.

"Don't bother."

He shook his head, turning and walking away. He stopped midstep, twirling back around. Steve stepped back slightly at Bucky's quick action. Bucky leaned forward, a finger outstretched and pointed, angrily growling out his words. 

"No, you know what? Fuck you. Fuck you for making me think...making me feel...like there was some kind of chance out there. That all of this, this bullshit, that it gets better."

Steve dropped his arms, voice pleading and soft, desparately trying to get a word in, to explain his side. 

"Bucky, please, that's not what..."

Bucky waved his hand again, cutting Steve off again. The laugh the erupted from deep within Bucky was unnerving. 

"No. I guess it was my fault for thinking some random stranger really gave a shit about whether or not I actually fucking drowned or not. Was I...was I just getting in the way of your plans? Did you finally figure out how to do it right? And I just kept showing up? Is that it?"

"Bucky, please!"

Bucky stepped back, hands up, palms out, walking backwards away from Steve, shaking his head side to side.

"No. No."

He turned around, walking away. He dropped his arms loudly against his legs as he walked back down to the entrance of the alleway, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He turned once he reached the corner of the building, stepping into the rush of the sidewalk, letting himself blend and disappear in the flow of the morning, leaving Steve still standing in the alley.

\-----------------------------------------

The plastic of the chair was unforgiving against the nerves and muscles in Bucky's ass. He could feel the pins and needles sensation start to radiate down his thighs and into his toes. He had been bouncing his knee rhythmically for the last twenty minutes, but it hadn't done anything to keep the numbing, tingling sensation away. 

His arms were crossed over his chest, eyes wandering along the tiles on the floor. He hadn't listened to one word of what anyone had said during the group therapy session, lost in his own thoughts and recapping of what transpired just hours ago with Steve. 

"James?"

_Shit._

His stopped his knee from bouncing as he slowly shifted his eyes up from off the floor. The group therapist sat a few chairs down from him, eyes patiently waiting for a response from him, hopeful that he may actually share something this session. 

"Anything you'd like to share?"

_Probably way more than you've got rented for time here..._

He shifted his weight, uncrossing his arms and bringing himself forward in the hard plastic chair so his elbows rested on his knees. He cleared his throat.

"I, uh..."

\------------------------------------------

Bucky slid back into the same booth in the far corner of the bar. It had been a few days since he last had been in there, but everything was still the same. Even the same bartender was there, already walking over with an opened bottle of beer.

"Was wondering if I'd see you again. Thought you either died or finally let go of whatever it was you were holding onto."

The bartender placed the bottle in front of Bucky, a soft expression on his face, slight specks of concern pooling in his eyes as he looked over Bucky. 

"So...which was it?"

Bucky gripped the bottle of beer, taking a long swig of it before looking up at the bartender.

"Just keep 'em coming."

Bucky dropped his gaze back down to the table, suddenly interested in the grains of the wooden tabletop. The bartender shuffled away, back behind the bar. Bucky tried to not notice the lingering looks of concern from the bartender, but after the fourth beer, he really just didn't give a shit anymore. 

\---------------------------------------

Steve sat in his usual spot on the beach, thankful that the night wasn't as cold as it had been. The world around him was quiet, only the sound of the crashing waves could be heard. His mind wandered quickly to the fight he had with Bucky earlier that day, if a fight is what it could be called. 

Part of Steve couldn't blame Bucky for his reaction. Steve knew he'd probably react the same way if roles were reversed. But, he tried to explain to Bucky what had happened. If Bucky would have just listened, heard Steve's side of the story...learned about what Steve had been keeping to himself...he would have understood. 

Well, maybe. Hopefully. Hopefully...

Steve looked around a few times that night, mind subconsciously keeping track of the time and very painfully staying well aware that Bucky hadn't shown up. And, when morning finally crested over the horizon, Steve couldn't help but feel the sharp pinch deep inside of himself, having been completely alone the entire night. 

Bucky had never showed up. 

All Steve had heard was the crash of the waves.

And his racing thoughts. 

\------------------------------------------

The following three nights played themselves out pretty much the same. Steve sitting on the beach, silently thanking global warming for the less cooled nights of this winter season, and without Bucky. 

Steve didn't want to let his mind roam into the space of possibilities that Bucky did something 'not okay'. Steve had spent three hours working himself back from those vividly detailed scenarios. But, for some reason, tonight, when the skies opened up and it had started to downpour, Steve could feel himself venturing off into the Land of Terrible Thoughts again.

It was looking more and more like Steve absolutely was going to be setting up shop there when shuffled and muffled footsteps over his head pulled him back. He leaned out from underneath the protecting overhang from the boardwalk to see Bucky perched up on the top beam of the railing, hands shoved into his coat pockets, sweatshirt hood pulled up over his head, leaning his shoulder against the further away light post beam. Bucky's clothes were visibly soaked from the rain, sudden shivers vibrating through his body, but his gaze out to the ocean and the stiffness in his shoulders screamed at Steve to just fucking dare ask Bucky to come underneath and get himself out of the rain...

Or anything else, for that matter.

So, Steve sat back, choosing to stay silent, but allowing himself to breathe slower and easier, knowing Bucky hadn't found another way to do what he clearly wants to. And Steve closed his eyes, smiling briefly as he watches the exit sign for the Land of Terrible Thoughts fade away into the distance. 

By morning, the rain still had yet to slow down. Steve poked his head back out from under the overhang, pulling himself up and dragging his backpack along with him. He glanced up to the railing where Bucky had been sitting, only to find it empty. Large rain drops had started to fill in the dried spot on the wood where Bucky's body had been. Steve climbed up the railing quickly, hoping to find a glimpse of Bucky, to see if he could catch up to him. 

Bucky was nowhere to be found. 

And Steve tightened the straps on his backpack around his sagging in defeat shoulders, adjusted the hood on his head, and made his way off the boardwalk.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky apologizes, in an odd sort of way.
> 
> Sorry in advance for this one. Really dialogue heavy, one sided. And stuff gets said about what happened to Bucky. 
> 
> I don't want to give too much away before hand, but understand about triggers...so, I'll just say somebody young and close in Bucky's life dies, there is mention of hospitals and fires. 
> 
> Sorry!

Bucky watched his footsteps stamp along the planks of the boardwalk. The routine path, as of late, was lit by the moon, crescently hung high in the sky. There was always something about the stillness of the moonlight when it got like that. How the sky seemed to illuminate the hidden shadows the daylight would outshine. An entirely new world was brought to life under the soft glow from above him.

He wasn't really sure what he was expecting showing up back on the boardwalk. He wasn't sure if he really was expecting Steve to suddenly NOT be there. After finding out his routine and, even though not knowing exactly how long Steve had been actually coming down to the boardwalk night after night...Bucky had a pretty good idea that it was way too fucking much. So, when his feet shuffled enough along the planks, and came to a suggested halt in front of that same old wooden bench, Bucky slowly lifted his head up to look out at the water. 

Taking in the empty beach, Bucky hesitated, dropping his chin to his chest and running a cooling hand across his rosy cheeks. 

"Fuck..."

He ran through his options, ran through his past few days spent away from the beach, spent away from Steve. He knew he could just keep on walking, keep the boardwalk, the ocean, the extremely frustrating stranger behind him. Or, he could wait. He could hop that railing and stick his ass stubbornly into the sand and just wait. 

So, that's exactly what he did. 

Because, again, he's ridiculously stubborn like that.

_Not a compliment, Buck._

_Wasn't intending it to be, Connie..._

\---------------------------------------

Bucky was lacking a lot of things in life, at that current crossroadish part in his timeline. One very blatant thing he was missing was his ability to tell time just by the clustering of the constellations. Or, in much more easier and modern terms, he should probably get his ass around to buying a watch. Or, in even more convenient terms, remembering to bring his damn phone with him. At least, with one of those three wildly differing in technical and theoretical or scientifical... _that one absolutely is not a word_...variances, he might actually have been able to tell just how long his ass had been wiggling its way further into the damp sand. 

None of it mattered, really, when faint **swooshes** climbed up from behind him. Without even having to turn, Bucky knew those footsteps belonged to Steve. At least, he was maybe seventy-nine percent sure it was. He one hundred percent hoped it wasn't somebody coming along to walk themselves into the water... Bucky was NOT equipped for that disaster...

The shadowy figure stepped past where Bucky had been sitting, keeping enough of a distance between them, plopping themselves down into the sand as well. Yup. It was Steve. Blatantly ignoring Bucky. And, well, with damn good reason. 

Noticing again, with very painful awareness, at his lack of time telling abilities, Bucky rose up to his feet, having had enough of however much time had passed. He trudged over towards where Steve was sitting, stopping an arms length away, staring down at Steve. And Steve, well, he continued on his own one man mission to pretend the world continued to spin without Bucky awkwarding standing up in the middle of it. He was partially succeeding...

Bucky lowered himself down, still keeping himself at an arms length away. He pulled his knees in to his chest, crossing and resting his arms over the tops of them. Steve sat in pretty much the identical position, only letting his chin rest along the top of one of his arms, eyes fixed and gazing out across the water, jaw clenched with a stubborn defiance Bucky had come to associate with Steve. 

They sat in silence. Only the soft crashing of the waves heard all around them. 

"Hey."

Bucky didn't turn his head, never breaking his gaze from the water. He figured Steve wouldn't answer back to him, but he was determined to make some kind of amends. 

"Sorry."

He turned his head, slowly letting his eyes roam over Steve, who remained silent, and still. 

With a huff of growing frustration, Bucky turned back to face the water. Another round of The Quiet Game passed by, and Bucky lost. Yet again. 

"So, I take it we're doing the whole not talking thing, again. Huh?"

Steve kept himself stock still, only letting his eyes flick out the corner of his eye, eyeing Bucky with a look of disbelief and annoyance. He readjusted his chin on his arm, steadying his gaze back out front of him, letting his own sigh slip out. 

Bucky shot out his own glare of utter annoyance, shaking his head. He clicked his teeth, bringing one hand up and letting his fingers fold to give a Thumbs Up to the general space between them. 

"Cool."

He returned his hand back to help keep his knees pulled into his chest, arms wrapping further around his shins. About six more rounds of The Quiet Game passed by, and this time, Bucky refused to lose. Nope. Nope. Nope.

"Did you really just give me a thumbs up?"

A small smirk spread across Bucky's lips. _Ha! I win!_ Wait! Bucky turned and looked at Steve. He was almost certain his head was playing out some kind of imaginary tricks again, refusing to believe Steve actually acknowledged him...and spoke to him. 

"Thumbs up can still be a thing, you know."

Bucky settled further into the sand, feeling content with whatever kind of agreed upon apology that just was. The silence that pressed back in was much more smoother and gentle than the previous chunks of time before. 

"I'm still pretty pissed at you."

Bucky, again, couldn't help the smirk. Even if it, maybe, wasn't the best reaction to Steve's expression of his own feelings. 

"Figured."

But, all that tension released when Bucky saw Steve's face quirk up in an amused smirk. 

Bucky took a deep breath. He knew he needed to let Steve in, at least a little. He knew he owed it to him, for the shitty way he acted the other day. 

"I don't think you have to break yourself in half to save everyone."

Steve suddenly shifted back into the hardened shell of silence. 

_Shit._

_Fix it, Buck!_

"You know that, right?"

Steve slowly dragged his eyes away from the sea, dropping them to focus on Bucky. If there was an appropriate word for the shivering sensation that one glare did to Bucky...this is exactly when he would use the crap out of it. 

"I'm just saying, breaking yourself apart because you've got it in your head that you need to be the one all of these people rely on...it...it isn't true."

Nope. That glare down wasn't breaking. 

_Shit. Shit. Quadruple shit..._

"That's probably the biggest fucking lie anybody ever made you believe."

_Okay, not sure if you were intending to help yourself out of that lovely hole you just dug and buried yourself into, but I don't think you're doing a good job._

Steve breaks his murder glare down and turns back to face the water. Still stubbornly silent.

"It's not your job to save the world. It's not your job to save me. Your only job is to figure out how to save yourself and fucking do it. Fuck everybody else. Let them figure it out. And when they do, then you can be there for them."

_Where are you going with this Buck?_

_Just wait._

"All I'm saying is that you don't have to carry the world on your shoulders. It's okay to fuck up. Let it happen. The world is still gonna keep going."

Bucky looked Steve over one last time. 

"Trust me. I know."

Bucky turned his head to stare out over the water. He let out a deep breath. That was it. That was his backhanded way of saying he was sorry. 

_You do know that that wasn't really an apology..._

_The last part was._

_How so?_

_It was an invitation._

_Oh._

They sat in their same usual silence again. It wasn't as smooth as moments before, but it wasn't choppy with the furious tension at the start of the night. Bucky exhaled deeply, again. Dammit, he had been working up to this moment, and he didn't want to let the momentum slow. He dug his fingertips in around his knee caps, bracing himself for the onslaught of pushed aside memories. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out another long breath before opening them back out, having to remind himself where and when he was before he started talking.

_Here goes..._

"The last thing I can remember was thinking to myself how sitting on a hospital floor was probably a really shitty decision."

Bucky saw Steve shift, eyes flickering to the side. Bucky figured that was enough of a tell to continue on.

"I remember looking at the ground and wondering how many other people had dropped down and been in the same position I was. I don't even remember how long I had been there, to be honest. Just that one minute, the doctor was in front of me, and then, the next, he wasn't. He was just gone."

Bucky paused, digging his fingers even deeper into his skin, hoping, damn near begging himself to get his body to stop shaking. 

"I, uhm, I...the room was really dark. I remember that being one of the first things I noticed when I woke up that night. I mean, I think it was the middle of the night, but it's never completely dark. City lights and all that crap, y'know?" 

Bucky swallowed, half attempting to get that damn lump in his throat to settle back down into his gut, and to half assed attempt to suppress the very raging river of tears that was just begging to fall from his eyes. Neither of those things really actually happened...

"I couldn't understand why everything was so dark, and why I couldn't breathe...why I was choking. I really don't know how long it was before I even realized what was happening...to realize that the entire place was on fire." 

Bucky imagined that if he had sharpened nails, he could probably have picked his knee caps right off from their cartilage, prying the bone away from all the nerves and ligaments securing them in place. 

"I didn't think about the smoke. Not really. Looking back, that's where everything went wrong. And...and I know I shouldn't think this way, but it's honestly all I can ever do...that maybe, if I...if I had just stopped and thought...gave myself a second to figure out what the hell I was supposed to even be doing...things would have been different. I wouldn't have had to..."

Remember that raging river of tears? Yup, now they were rushing over their ledges, waterfalls of salt and sorrow spilling against Bucky's skin. There was no holding back now. Steve was staring out at the ocean, still. Bucky wanted to be pissed at him, but that was until he saw the streak of wetness trailing down Steve's own skin. 

"I made it down the hallway. Stumbled into the walls a few times, but, hey, I made it. The smoke had already filled the entire apartment and some spots of the ceiling were starting to catch. Got to the door and I couldn't get it open. The doorknob was too hot. I always hated when she closed the door at night. She knew that, but she was just so much like me...never listened, did things her own way."

Bucky struggled with that last part. His voice waivering as the tears started to flow more and more rapidly. He didn't want to remember how much of him he saw in her, how much alike they both were. She was his mirror image, his eyes, his smile, his damn personality. 

"Kicked the door in. Barefoot and everything. Had always wanted to do that."

Steve had turned, eyes soft, but sad. His voice barely above a whisper.

"Bucky, what happened?"

"She wasn't even awake when I picked her up. Didn't even know what was going on. Looking back, now, I know she wasn't still sleeping, that she was unconscious. Probably already was...she was... God, she was so heavy in my arms. I remember thinking about how much she had grown that summer. Can you believe that? While the entire apartment was filling with smoke and fire catching all around us...I was there thinking about how much taller she was, how her favorite pair of pajamas wasn't gonna fit her anymore, that she...when her fingers dropped her teddy bear on the floor. I didn't...I couldn't...I should have picked it up. She loved that fucking bear...."

Bucky ducked his head down, letting his forehead rest onto his forearm, letting out a broken laugh that drifted into a choked sob. It was a few moments before he lifted his head back up, watching the rise and crash of the waves before finding his voice again. 

"I tried making it to the door. But, I just couldn't. Even on my knees, holding her in one arm and trying to feel my way with the other, I couldn't make it. I sat back against the wall and pulled her into my chest. I couldn't see her face. The smoke was so thick. I couldn't see her eyes, her smile, her freckles. I couldn't see anything. I would have given anything to have seen her one last time. Anything."

Bucky let out a long, shuddering breath. 

"I guess I passed out just before the firefighters showed up. Don't even remember being brought down and into the ambulance. Don't remember her being pulled out of my arms and put in her own ambulance. Barely even remember showing up to the ER. All I really remember is waking up, in this big room, surrounded by all this stuff. And, completely alone."

Steve had shifted at some point during Bucky's confession, closing the distance between them. 

"Bucky..."

Bucky kept talking, as though he barely even registered Steve's existence by his side.

"The nurses, the doctors...they all stared. I mean, I definitely was screaming, pulling shit off of me, tripping over my own feet trying to get out of the room to find her...and I...I felt so bad for the guy that had to tell me. Man, that's not a job I ever want. Having to tell some guy whose freaking out that his kid is dead? Terrible fucking job."

Bucky faintly heard Steve gasp beside him.

"I guess she breathed in too much smoke. They tried. The guy, everyone, they tried. For three hours. Three fucking hours. Can you imagine that? For three hours, they pounded on my little girl's chest. They pushed and pushed air into her lungs. They did everything they could...they fought for her...they were fighting and I was taking a fucking nap five doors down..."

Bucky shook his head, anger and bitterness lacing every word. He hated himself for that harsh truth. He was supposed to have been there, to protect her, to give her the entire world, to fight for her every dream and wish...and he was sound asleep rooms away. He wasn't there in her time of need, the moment in life where she needed him the most. 

"Bucky, you can't blame yourself for that. You were unconscious! You had..."

"So, that's why I was thinking about the fucking tiles when the doctor was telling me she had died. Guess my legs gave out on me. Collapsed right there in the hallway. And I don't even know how long I was there. I can just remember the sun had come up already through the windows. I think I was just going through the motions at that point. Signing papers and talking to police. Then, one of the nurses asked me if I wanted to see her....before they had to bring her away."

Bucky inhaled deeply, knowing this memory was going to be the worst of them all.

"They had cleaned her up. You really couldn't even see the soot in her nose or anything. Someone must have brushed her hair, too. Fixed up the braid I managed to get it into the day before. I sucked so bad at those, but man, I practiced every day doing those. And she said she loved them, even the really shitty ones. Just because she knew how hard I tried.... My god, she was perfect. This perfect little thing I helped create. And I thought we were done for when her mom died, that this little girl had no chance of anything because I didn't think I could do anything right by her. But, she never let me think like that. She believed in me more than anybody else ever had, and that look she always had in her eyes when she was even around me, holy shit...that look could make even the shittiest day tolerable. Because, I knew she was in it, and that was all I was ever gonna need. She made me a better person, because she knew I could be."

Bucky smiled at the memories. As painful as they were, those were the ones he had been forgetting about. 

"They told me not to touch her, but...I couldn't just let her lay there like that. She was so cold. I held her up against me and wrapped the blanket around her. I don't know why I thought that was gonna help. But, I just sat with her in that bed, rocking her back and forth, singing her favorite songs to her. The nurses, man, they were great about it. I don't know how long it was that they let me stay like that with her, but it was long enough that I had laid her back down like I had been putting her to bed all those years. I remember kissing her forehead and telling her how much I loved her and that I would see her when she woke up in the morning, just like we always had been doing. It wasn't until I left, stepped outside the hospital, when the world decided to crumble down at my feet and reality crashed right the fuck in on me."

Bucky shifted, wringing out his fingers that had been so tightly pressed into his skin. 

"Do you know what it was like...walking out of somewhere...without a kid in your arms? You walk in there, knowing one world, a world where you're a parent, you're responsible for another life, another heartbeat. You decided to bring that soul, that creation into the world...into existence. And...that one decision, completely changed you. You knew, from that moment, this life was never going to be just about you anymore. You would never be alone, and you would have this tiny little thing running around the Earth pumping solely from the depths of your own love, your own heart. You can't even remember a time, a world...where that tiny little heart didn't exist. Then, you're walking out of that hospital...back into that life...that world...without it. And that emptiness...that darkness...you can't even begin to describe the suffocating feeling the power one tiny, tiny, tiny little ball of muscle and tissue can do...how easily it can destroy you."

Bucky turned and looked at Steve. The pain mirrored back to him. 

"And...it fucking destroys you."

Nope. Couldn't hold the look in Steve's eyes. Bucky quickly turned back to look out into the water. 

"How you can so seemlessly go from being a parent...to not? I mean, do I still get to call myself a parent? Am I still? Even if I don't have a kid anymore?"

Bucky exhaled deeply. He let the silence settle back down over them, unsure of what else he should say. He wasn't expecting Steve to respond. He wasn't expecting anything, really. So, when he turned, after what must have been a good half hour, he didn't want that same look on Steve's face that everyone usually gave to him. No. Not Steve. He didn't want that for or from Steve. 

"Don't. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Look at me like I'm broken."

"I'm not!"

"Everyone always has that look. People look at you like you're broken. Like you're this fragile little thing that is just barely keeping it together and at any moment, you're just gonna crumble right in front of them. They look at you like you're weak, broken, barely holding it together. I mean, I know I'm really not holding it together all that well, but...I don't wanna see it written on someone else's face. I don't wanna see how broken I am reflected back to me. I don't need the reminder."

Steve shifted, eyes rolling away from Bucky to look back out to the water. 

"They're just trying to find the right thing to say."

Bucky waved his hand into the space in front of them. 

"Nobody knows what to say. But, they always try to say something. I wish people would understand that you don't always gotta say the right thing. Sometimes, there really isn't a right thing to say."

Bucky huffed out a laugh. 

"Hell, I'd almost rather prefer someone coming up to me and say, 'Hey, sorry your kid's dead. Sucks.' And that's it." 

Steve turned, eyes hardening slightly, body posture loosening. 

"Don't you think that's a little, uhm, harsh?"

Bucky turned and stared at Steve, eyes narrowing a fraction.

"My kid's dead. Pretty sure harsh isn't gonna really make me more bummed out about it..."

Steve squinted his eyes at Bucky before letting his head tilt to one side, a slight smirk lifting up the corner of his mouth. 

"Ever think that maybe people don't know what to say to you...because of your really shitty personality?"

Bucky almost didn't recognize the full belly laugh that erupted out of him. 

"Yeah, that could probably be it, too."

They both turned back to look out at the water, eyes glimmering into shades of greens and fires as the sun started to rise up over the water's edge, nestling itself into the blues and grays of their irises. 

_Well, that was one hell of an apology..._


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, Bucky couldn't have been the only one to say sad things. 
> 
> Lots more talking.
> 
> Warnings for traumatic accidents (?), death, and lots and lots of talking...if that's a thing to warn people about. 
> 
> Hope you like it.

They both had let the morning sun wash over them, slowly warming them from the nighttime chill that had settled in. After Bucky's apology-slash-confession-slash-impromptu therapy session, neither of them bothered with filling the air with forced conversation. But, once the sky had blended into its blue shade of the day, Bucky got to his feet, Steve following close behind. 

"Wanna try the whole food thing, again?"

Bucky shifted his weight, turning slightly towards Steve. 

"I promise to be less of a dick about stuff. My treat?" 

Steve couldn't help but let out a laugh. 

"Don't you have a job to get to?"

Steve shouldered his backpack, dusting the sand off of his jeans. 

"Uhm, I think they called it something like unpaid job protected leave and additional bereavement with assistance from trauma experts for extreme emotional distress. And, apparently, insurance and life insurance companies pay out quickly when it involves a kid. I mean, unreal...the things you learn, right?"

Bucky laughed, and Steve wasn't sure if it was for finding some underlying layer of humor Steve was unaware of, or for the absurdity of the knowledge he had come to learn about insurance companies and the safety of his employment in one of the worst ways imagineable.

"So, you want some food? My kid's death is buying." 

Steve nervously shifted his weight, turning to face towards the boardwalk. 

"Wicked awkward invitation, but I guess I could grab a coffee..."

Bucky smirked at Steve, falling in step with him as they both made their way towards the boardwalk. 

\----------------------------------

Their walk to and from the run down coffee shop was uneventful, and filled with their easily found comfortable silence. The space between them allowed for quick shoulder bumps and mumbled apologies. By the time they made it back to the boardwalk, the few storefronts still hadn't opened yet. 

They sat themselves down on the bench that was nestled between the two lightpost beams, leaving an arms length distance between them. Both of them had opted out of any actual food, cold hands gripping tightly around large cardboard paper coffee cups. 

Bucky pried the lid off of his cup, watching as the steam from the hot liquid curl and whisp into the air. He dug out a small glass bottle from his pocket, partially filled with smooth whiskey. He uncapped the bottle, tipping it into his coffee, filling it just until the coffee threatened to spill over the brim. 

Steve glared over at Bucky, watching the entire thing play out. 

"It's like eight in the morning..."

Bucky tipped the still uncapped bottle over his lips, taking a long swig of it while maintaining eye contact with Steve. He drank the rest of the whiskey down, pulling the bottle away, wincing at it burned its way down his throat. 

"Guess I got a late start today."

Steve rolled his eyes, turning his head to look back out at the ocean, taking a small sip of his own coffee. Bucky placed the lid back onto his coffee, pocketed the emtpy pint bottle and took a very generous sip out of the cup. 

_Thought you weren't trying to be a dick?_

_You can't expect me to act accordingly before my coffee. I tried. What can ya do??_

_...not be a dick, for starters._

_Meh, details._

Bucky took another long sip from his cup, bringing it down to settle between his hands, resting easily on his thighs. He glanced over at Steve, watching as Steve's curious blue eyes stared out into the water, a slight tilt to his head, as though he was lost in thought.

"So, I know I promised I wasn't gonna start a fight, but are you ever gonna answer my question?"

_Pretty sure telling someone you're not gonna start a fight with them is kind of almost like telling them you're about to..._

_Shut it, Connie. I'm trying here..._

Steve very noticeably sighed, lowering his head down before slowly lifting it back up to focus his gaze on Bucky. 

"I tried to tell you. You kind of just refused to listen to anything I had to say."

Steve picked at the flap on the top of his coffee cup, pressing it down and popping it back up. Bucky watched, letting the mesh of the plastic cover **popping** and the **crashing** of the waves blend together. Steve had been keeping a subdued pattern with the flap of the cover, distracting Bucky from what Steve had actually just said moments before. 

"When?"

Steve stopped his finger from it's rhythmic plucking and pressing, letting his mouth gape open slightly, turning his head and giving Bucky a look that came across as _'Are you fucking kidding me?'_

Steve dropped his gaze back down to the cover, absently tracing his finger along the ridge.

"In the alleyway. You know, before you kept interrupting me and then stormed off."

_Oh, yeah. Shit._

Steve lifted his eyes back up at Bucky, a small smirk pulling up the side of his lips. Bucky huffed out a small laugh, sheepish and embaressed. 

"Oh, yeah. Uhm, sorry about that."

He took another long sip of his coffee, thankful there was still enough of the booze left in the cardboard cup to keep his stupid mouth full. 

Another few minutes had passed by. Bucky awkwardly traced the edge of the sleeve the barista had placed on the bottom half of his cup, the sleeves that let the warmth of the beverage underneath it soak into one's skin without any actual singe-like injuries. Steve kept his focus down towards the wooden planks beneath his feet.

When Steve finally spoke, it was soft, almost mumbled. 

"It's not what you think, you know."

Bucky looked over at Steve, watching the swirling motion of his hair that had snuck out underneath the comfort of his knit hat, fluttering against his skin in the morning ocean breeze. Steve lifted his head up slightly, just enough to let the ridges of his eyes be seen, vivid blue peering out from behind sunken pale skin, beautifully matching the depth of the ocean in front of them.

"About the reef."

Bucky watched as Steve inhaled and exhaled deeply, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the shifting of his weight, the rapid movement of his eyes, almost as though it was physically hurting him to find the words he wanted to say. Bucky kept silent, waiting until Steve could find the willpower to overcome whatever harsh sting he must have been feeling.

"You were right. It was never in any of the papers. But, how I know about them...I...it's not what you thought it was. I never tried to kill myself."

Steve looked over at Bucky, eyes pleading for Bucky to believe him, at least, on that last part. 

"So, how did you know?"

Steve's eyes drifted back out across the large expanse of water, glazing over in a way that Bucky assumed Steve was watching a memory play out across the transparent surface, instead of actually watching the surge of the surf. 

"I...I had a brother. A twin, actually. Identical. The only way people used to be able to tell us apart was that he had a faint scar just underneath his left eye. Got it when we were eight. He stole one of my baseball cards, so I threw a baseball at him from across our bedroom. Split open his cheek. He had to get six stitches. I was grounded for two weeks."

Steve shook his head, laughing quietly at himself and his actions from the past. 

"Guess it wasn't so bad, though. People stopped calling us the wrong names after that."

Steve dropped his hands into his lap, lowering his head down to watch as he nervously traced his fingers along whatever surface of the coffee cup he could.

"He was always the one that had a smile on his face. Nothing really ever bothered him. Until...yeah, until our, uhm...until our parents died."

Bucky's breath caught in his throat. He assumed he knew where this conversation was heading, but was silently praying it would take some miraculous detour. 

"We had just turned fifteen. We were on our way back from some family trip somewhere, I don't even remember anymore, now. But, we were fighting, about something dumb, I'm sure. I remember swinging at him in the backseat and he lunged at me, but accidentally got our Dad in the side of the head. It wasn't a solid hit, but enough to catch him off guard, you know? Enough to...uhm...to make him swerve."

_Shit...I don't see a detour anywhere..._

_...neither do I._

"Didn't see the 18-wheeler coming from the other side. Hit us head on. Dad died right away. Mom...uhm...she uhm...she didn't. She was alive long enough to look behind and see us. And...even with all the blood and glass everywhere, she still managed to smile at us, tell us she loved us, reaching out for both of us. But, we...our seatbelts...we tried. We couldn't reach her."

Steve looked quickly over at Bucky, swallowing a few times in an attempt to choke down the tears. 

"She died in front of us. And we got shipped out to Boston to live with our grandparents."

Steve let a small smile break over his lips, feeble attempt to lighten the memories.

"Wasn't too bad. Our grandparents were great. New school wasn't bad either. We adjusted. Except, well, my brother...he uhm...he blamed himself. No matter how many times I told him it was an accident, he always blamed himself for what happened. Couldn't let it go."

Steve looked back out across the beach, his features falling, worry lines indenting across his forehead.

"Looking back, I know I probably shouldn't have left for New York for college, but I just wanted to be back home, where we came from, just be close to where I last had them. I shouldn't have left him like that. I should have moved back home, especially after our grandparents died. But, I didn't. I didn't. I stayed here. And left him all alone."

Steve shook his head side to side.

"I should have dropped everything and gone to him when he called me that night."

"You can't blame yourself for that." Bucky quietly said.

"Just like he shouldn't have blamed himself for what happened?"

Steve let the anger easily bleed into his words, sharp tongue licking over each syllable and vowel, shaking his head again, looking anywhere except for where Bucky was. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, more pulled back. 

"I was studying late that night, and didn't get the voicemail until it was after midnight. I guess he had heard that someone we had grown up with went to that spot on the beach, heard that it was notorious for people looking for a way out. That's uhm, that's what he kept saying...on the...in his voicemail. That he just wanted a way out.

"I ran out of there, left my books and everything. Ran the entire way there. Made it just as he was up to his waist in the water. I screamed for him. He only turned around to smile at me and wave goodbye before walking further in. I remember the water being so cold when I ran in. My clothes slowed me down. I managed to get a hand out to him, grab onto his hand. But, he pulled it away from me. And, that's...that's where my foot got stuck. In between the reefs. It was still cold enough that I had my boots on. Damn fucking things were just big enough to get stuck between them."

Steve shook his head again, laughing quietly.

"Guess that's why everyone takes their shoes off." 

_Well, shit, huh? Answered that question..._

_Not the way I wanted the answer._

_...no. Me neither..._

"I couldn't get my foot out in time. His fingers slipped through mine and I saw him go under. I screamed but he wouldn't come back up. Someone must have heard me yelling because the next thing I knew, I was being dragged out and wrapped up in a bunch of blankets. And then, they were...they...they were pulling him out."

Steve lowered his voice, barely whispering.

"It was the first time I had seen him look so peaceful in such a long time. Like it almost wasn't real...like he was...just sleeping."

He looked up at Bucky, tears spilling over and crashing all over his cheeks. Bucky gulped down his own mess of tears, unable to break away from the look he was giving Steve, but unable to find anything even remotely comforting to say. 

_Ironic, isn't it? Trying to find something to say??_

Steve wiped the tears away with the back of his hand, drinking stunted sips out of his, now, cold coffee. They sat in silence, letting the words wash over both of them in equally different ways, as easily as the waves had been washing over the sand. 

\------------------------------------

Time had passed them both by, the morning slowly waking up along with them. Storefronts echoed across the boardwalk as their metal grated doors, rusted over time from the salted sea air, scraped and groaned their ways open. Bucky had long since finished off his spiked to shit coffee, barely feeling the buzz from the acidic alcohol he laced it with. He had a fleeting thought, just a fleet _No, I don't think that's right...it's not a clusterfuck of old timey ships gathering for battle at sea..._ , that maybe, MAYBE, he should pull back on his drinking a bit. Considering he basically had just downed a pint a whatever and could barely feel anything from it. 

_I might have a point, y'know._

_Spike yourself in the eye on that super awesome point of yours for me._

_Well, that was a little bit aggressive, don't you think?_

_Not enough, actually._

_What crawled up your ass and died?_

_My annoying as fuck conscience. That's what._

_Wrong end of the body there, sunshine._

_If only you had a throat...so I could punch it right now._

_So violent so early in the morning._

_Are we done with this conversation yet?_

_Fine. Whatever. Continue on being a dick._

_Why thank you._

Bucky let his, now, slightly quieter mind trace back over the things Steve had told him. He couldn't help the displaced anger at the way Steve kept blaming himself for what happened, for everything that had happened. Bucky wasn't angry at Steve. No, he was angry at the world for it's fucking insistence on doing everything it could to break down the warmth and goodness he had come to associate with This Fucking Stranger Named Steve. Even with just days tucked away inside the pocket of their 'Maybe It Can Be Called A Friendship' friendship...Bucky couldn't deny that there was a strength that was radiating from deep within Steve, a strength that Bucky's own could never compare, could never even amount to nearly a dam fraction of it. At least, not these days, anyways. 

"Do you think that if you stop grieving, if you let yourself move on and try to find some kind of happiness again, that people will look at you differently? That they'll blame you? That they'll think you never really cared, or that you had purposely forgotten about the life...the person that was taken away from you? Do you think that if you pick up the pieces of your life and take that first step...that that makes you not care?"

Bucky wasn't sure where his sudden urgency and barrage of soul searching questioning came from. He, also, wasn't sure he really wanted the honest answer. 

Steve's hands had found their ways into his coat pockets, lazily resting on top of his lap. His gaze stayed narrowed and focused out at the ocean, his body barely moving, if even at all, and Bucky wasn't sure if Steve had even heard him. 

"Nobody gets to tell you how to grieve and how to move on. Especially not how much you loved someone. Nobody gets to tell you any of that. Nobody. Ever. Nobody grieves the same, nobody breaks the same, nobody heals the same. So, no. I guess none of that really matters, in the end. If it helps somebody else to find comfort in assuming how I'm handling life at that very moment, then let them. If it makes them able to breathe easier believing I don't care anymore...then, honestly, I don't really give a shit."

Bucky hadn't been able to pull his eyes away from where they had wandered out over to the water, when Steve spit what Bucky could only imagine were the charred and shattered remnants of the dustiest parts of Steve's heart. 

"Nobody can tell you how to get past the feeing of being broken. As much as people try. And, some of them, try so fucking hard. But, maybe being broken doesn't have to be a bad thing."

_Well, shit. He's really laying it all out there, huh?_

"Maybe it is, though."

Bucky could feel the shame in his words before they even left his lips. 

Steve turned, eyes pooling with something Bucky couldn't quite place.

"Why? Why does it have to be?"

Bucky dropped his head down, suddenly very concerned about the lone string of runaway thread peeking out from the button of his coat. 

"Hard to stand when all the parts of you have broken. Kind of hard to keep all those pieces together after a while."

Steve breathed out heavily. Bucky could feel the sigh trickle across whatever parts of skin of his own was exposed. Or, well, maybe that was just the wind. Maybe? Sure. Yeah. 

"Those pieces...those aren't for anyone else to understand. They might not even be for you to understand. Sometimes...sometimes, we have to let go. Even if we don't want to."

Bucky laughed. Well, okay, so it wasn't really a laugh. It was more along the lines of 'Steve Has Definitely Lost His Fucking Mind Now' kind of air-like sound pushing out of his lungs. 

"What kind of closure is that?"

Bucky thought back to his very one-sided therapy sessions and group hang outs in those smelly, rented out rooms around town. He thought about how everyone else seemed to focus their energy into finding that small speck of something that could give them that moment, that closure they so desperately needed. Hell, that was something Bucky was starting to believe he desperately needed, too. Bucky still hadn't brought his eyes back up, still finding that damn piece of thread really fucking interesting, okay?! But, he could easily hear the smirk that had coated over Steve's words.

"Sometimes, you don't get to have closure. You just have to move on. Accept it, and move on. Regardless of how much whatever happened knocks everything on it's fucking ass. Life's a bitch that way, y'know? Sneaking up and finding every way possible to tear you down."

Bucky finally lifted his head, stretching his muscles to reciprocate the smirk, regardless of how forced it may actually have been. _It was really fucking forced, by the way...just in case anyone was wondering..._

"What's that about, huh?"

Steve let out an actual laugh that time, pulling a hybrid version of a laugh-slash-sigh from Bucky. Bucky didn't wait to see if Steve would answer his slightly rhetorical question, finding the words bubbling up in his throat, begging, for what had to be the first time in such a long time, to spill out into the space in front of him. _Therapist Lady would be proud!_

"I think losing something like that, something that was so much a part of you, can change everything about you. And you never even notice it happening. It's just one moment, you're you. The you you've always been, your entire life. And then, the next moment, you're this entirely different version of yourself, one you can't even recognize in the mirror. You don't recognize your eyes, your hair, all the lines and wrinkles in your face, you don't even recognize your own voice. 

"And, god, your thoughts? You can't understand how they've gone to such a dark place. It's like your entire universe has been clouded over and all the hope and happiness has been ripped away, and you're left struggling to breathe. But, your lungs don't work. So, you're left there, cold, alone, lost in the dark, suffocating. 

"And, there's that small part of you, the one you're not really trying all that hard to keep hidden anymore, that doesn't want you to remember how to breathe. You want to suffocate. You want to feel the press of the world as it crumbles all around you. You want to be buried underneath all of it.

"They don't really have a twelve step process for coming back from that, do they? The space between those two moments."

_Holy shit! Yes! Therapist Lady WOULD be so proud!_

_See! You can't remember her name, either!_

_Seriously...so not the take away focus right now..._

_Well, I'm just saying...it's not just me that can't remember..._

"Pretty sure I'm the second moment."

Bucky chanced, running pretty wild, apparently, with his Mandated Therapy Session Learned Strength, and faced Steve. 

"Which moment are you in?"


	11. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of swearing, obviously on Bucky's part.
> 
> Some more sadness? 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

There really wasn't much motivation, or real actual need, nor expectation, to keep a conversation going after they both had let their emotions spew out of themselves. Whatever tears they struggled to hold back had fallen, crashing so, so violently onto their sea salted shriveling skin, their bodies both had decided internalized conversations were easier to handle than anything outward. 

They both had sat and watched the high tide receed back on itself, bringing with it that putrid, rotting stench that only low tide seems to carry. And, even though the inviting smells of the local surrounding diners fought valiantly against the Forgotten In The Back Of The Fridge fishy kind of odor...Bucky smirked at himself, finding the oddly mixed aroma kind of...soothing. _Soothing? Really? You CAN actually smell that, right?_

_Did anything I've done in the past year actually come across to you as NORMAL?!_

With whatever kind of unspoken language both Bucky and Steve seemed to have developed in their shortish Stranger But Probably More Along The Lines Of Actually Getting Closer Towards That Vague Area Of Legit Friends friendship they've formed these past few weeks _you can say months. It's close enough to two months..._ they both stood up from the bench and shoved their hands into their own coat pockets, almost as if they had rehearsed it...like some damn, overplayed boy band from the mid-90's. 

_You act like you don't know every word to that first Backstreet Boys CD..._

_Did I say I didn't? No. Stop fucking judging me..._

They both crossed along the boardwalk, crossing the still emptyish street, stepping up onto the sidewalk. Steve stopped short, Bucky reacting a few steps behind, slowing his pace to a stop just out of arms reach from Steve. He watched as Steve reached up and ripped a corner off one of the ads glued there weeks ago, edges clearly worn in on themselves from the unpredictable winter weather. Bucky just watched in confused wonderment as Steve somehow managed to pull a pencil out of the depths of his coat pocket, like some magical fucking magician. 

"Where did that come from?"

Steve looked up, big blue eyes narrowing, laced with sarcasm and annoyance. Yup, the go-to Steve Is Looking At Bucky Like That Because Bucky Says Stupidly Obvious And Well Really Just Plain Old Stupid In General Shit look. 

"My pocket."

Bucky scoffed, fidgeting his weight on his feet, shifting back and forth between the two a few times. Steve smirked, looking back down to the torn paper and Magically Appearing Pencil in his hands. He knelt down, crouching with one foot tucked underneath himself and the other leg bent up in front of him. He used the rigidity of his bent knee to support the flow of his handwriting underneath the pencil as he scrawled something along the torn paper. Bucky could faintly hear the scratching the lead, _well it's not really lead anymore...too toxic..._ made against the paper. 

Steve stood, fidgeting the Magically Appearing Pencil between his fingers as he handed over the scrap of paper towards Bucky. Bucky hesitently reached out for it, spinning the thin material between his fingertips so he could read it easier. It was a series of numbers.

A phone number. 

Bucky looked up at Steve, confusion clearly etched onto his own face and something that kind of looked like nervousness flickering across Steve's. 

"What's this?"

Bucky watched as the Magically Appearing Pencil twirled across Steve's fingers, dipping and waving within the long, thin digits. 

"A phone number."

If Bucky could smack someone in a single tooth, for absurdity and ironic purposes, that moment would have been extremely ideal for that kind of action. 

"Okay. Super helpful... Whose is it?"

"Mine."

Bucky looked back down at the scrappy torn up paper in his hand, fingers gripping just a little tighter around it. _Just in case, you know, with the wind and stuff._

_Yup. Sure._

"For 'just in case' moments. Don't look too much into it."

Steve smirked, nudging Bucky's shoulder with his own as he walked past him on the sidewalk. Bucky looked at the paper one last time before pocketing the piece of paper and turning around to follow Steve along the sidewalk.

\---------------------------------------

Stupid Fucking Therapist Lady hasn't stopped talking for the last twenty-six minutes. Twenty-six long, long, so fucking long, minutes. _Fuck...does she breathe? Is that a fucking skill they have to learn in Talk To Unhinged People school?! Holy fuck..._

To make matters worse, adding absolute fucking insult to whatever injury...whatever the hell that saying even means...Stupid Fucking Therapist Lady keeps giving Bucky that look. That look that he absolutely fucking hates. The one where her eyes are Not So Secretly, at all!, trying to cover him with the warmest, most snuggliest blanket known to mankind and keep him protected from the mean little world because Bucky is some frail and broken little duckling. Remember that single tooth punching moment from earlier in the day? Full on entire mouth moment right now. 

_Seriously? Punching a woman? Someone that's trying to HELP you?!_

_I wasn't really gonna..._

_But...you thought about it!_

_For like a second!_

_That was more than a second._

_Okay, five seconds. Back off._

_Expected more from you, Bucky._

_Probably shouldn't. I can be quite the let down._

Bucky slouched further down into his chair. His eyes attempted to fling imaginary daggers and even fucking ninja stars at the slow as shit moving clock behind Stupid Fucking Therapist Lady's head. He exhaled, forcibly pushing his breath out through his nose, flaring them in frustrated emotional annoyance. _Stop being rude._

_No._

Stupid Fucking Therapist Lady was talking about the fire. Bucky did NOT want to talk about the fire. Bucky did NOT want to talk about the stupid fire. Bucky did NOT want to talk about the stupid fucking fire. BUCKY DID NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT THE STUPID MOTHERFUCKING FIRE! And Stupid Fucking Therapist Lady has been talking about the stupid fucking fire for the past thirty-seven fucking minutes. Bucky could feel his skin itching, like that bone deep bug covering itch, the kind that can't be scratched, the kind that could shove a person clear off that ledge between sane and absolute fucking insanity. Oh, so easily. 

He tried pinching the skin on his thigh, dig through the rough denim and pierce his cut way too short nails into the flesh underneath. Anything...just to stop the bouncing of his leg. Yes, he knew he was being an asshole, really amping up his dickish qualities, but...she just would not stop talking about it. 

Forty-two minutes. _What the hell? Is time purposely trying to be the worst fucking thing in the entirety of the universe?!! Does it know how to move at a normal fucking speed?! Oh my god......_

_Deep breaths, Bucky. C'mon. Breathe..._

_No. Fuck you and your stupid fucking calm down methods. Fuck you, fuck her, and fuck this!_

Forty-five minutes.

Bucky shot up out of his chair, air and Stupid Fucking Therapist Lady startled. He stomped his feet, absolutely throwing a massive temper tantrum, as he made his way over to the door. He squeezed his fingers around the door handle, relishing in the way the cool metal pressed painfully into his palm, twisting and wrenching the door open. The handle he had, just moments before, been holding onto, now slammed into the wall behind the door, pushing in and nestling itself a nice new home within the drywall. Bucky didn't even falter in his steps, storming past the gaping mouths and widened eyes scattered throughout the waiting room. Bucky was pretty sure he heard Stupid Fucking Therapist Lady calling out after him, but...well, who the fuck cared at that point?

\-----------------------------------------

The pull of the room was becoming too overwhelming. The way the straight lines of the walls and ceiling and floorboards all contorted and twisted around the spot where Bucky had buried himself under his usual pile of blankets was starting to stretch his limbs, his muscles, his every fucking fibrous nerve to their ultimate max. He could feel the oxygen singe his airway, seeping out of his lungs, burning the tissue lining his throat and nose. He could feel the twinge his overbeating heart was making, smashing and crashing against his rib cage, desparate to break out from the confines of all that calcified boney mess that made up his brittle fucking skeleton. His eyes stung, peeling against the scratchy atmosphere his worn out tear stained skin that just couldn't hold in anything anymore.

He ripped the blankets off of his head, hoping...praying...fucking begging...that the cool air from outside the confines of his blanket bubble of false safety would somehow bring him back down to his warped to shit reality. At least there, though, breathing wasn't so difficult...

He sat up, forcing his eyes to focus, instead of their all over the place nystagmus-like flickering they were all for doing at that moment. He gulped at the air, swallowing thickly, pressing the really fucking need oxygen down into his lungs. His mind tried to rationalize the need for oxygen, but the hammering muscles of his heart kept distracting him from that kind of linear thinking. 

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck..."

The words tumbled out of his mouth, giving audible detail to the very transparent breakage of all things solid buried deep inside of his skin. Yup, his entire bodily makeup was slowly becoming disjointed, and all Bucky could really do was sit back and watch as it happened. The connection between his brain and his everything else had frayed, severing and sparking under the violent whatever a good word for ripping the fuck apart is. 

Time must have passed, and his body must have spasmed, because Bucky had suddenly found himself on the floor, knees digging harshly into the wooden boards, forehead burying into the cushiony surface of the mattress, something frail crumpled in one clenched fist while his other fingers grasped needily over something ringing against his ear. A phone. A cell phone. His cell phone. 

Who the fuck was he calling?

"Hello?"

A tired voice. Whose was that? _What fucking time was it?!_

Bucky was having a hard time grasping what the hell was even happening, or how he even got to the floor, let alone somebody talking on the other line of the phone that had somehow ended up in his hand and had even been dialed on. He couldn't figure out why he was calling someone, when he was pretty sure Sam had already been by his room, knocking, pounding on his door. Not even just once. But, three times. Pretending to sleep was easy when someone buries themselves under a pile of blankets every time someone else's head decided to poke it's way in through the door. Wait. Phone call. Right. 

"Hello? Are you there?"

Bucky turns his head, keeping his forehead pressed into the mattress, trying to bring the phone down to his mouth. He opens it, closing it quickly, opening it up again a moment after. His lips quivered, his jaw shivering under the weight of the words he was struggling so intensely to formulate. He licked around the backside of his teeth. He could taste the remnants of the whiskey bottle he downed mostly on his way back just from the therapist's office. The second bottle was probably a bit too much, but hey, go big or go home, right? 

"Listen, it's really late. I'm just gonna..."

Bucky swallowed. When did all those lumps get in there?! A soft squeak managed to slip out. He lifted his head up off the bed, squeezing his eyes closed as tightly as he probably could. 

"I...I, uhm...it's..."

His throat closed off again. Bucky could hear Steve shifting on the other side of the line.

"Hey, who is this?"

Bucky ran a hand down his face, feeling the skin pressing in tightly against itself as he kept his eyes painfully closed tight, and the days worth of stubble tracing across his clenching jawline.

"It's late, I'm, uhm...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..."

Bucky could hear even more shifting from Steve's end of the line, much more frantic than before.

"Bucky? Is that you? Is everything okay?"

Bucky winced as he swallowed, forcing a breath out of his lungs. 

"Yeah, no...I, uhm...I'm sorry. I'm sorry if I woke..."

Bucky's throat kept doing that weird straining thing, but it was okay. Steve was just as quick to fill in the stuttered space between Bucky's words.

"No, no, hey, it's okay. It's fine. Are you okay?"

Was he okay? Was he okay?! _Ha!_

"Ha, uhm, no. I'm not...I'm not okay."

The noise that escaped out from Bucky was a cross between a sob and a very creepy sounding laugh. In a different situation, Bucky might have found that strange combination amusing, both in premise and follow through, but...well, one fucked up mental transition at a time. 

"Hey, hey. Just, just tell me where you are, and I'll come to you. Just..."

"It's okay. I'm...just wanted to say... uhm, I'm..."

Bucky was trying to end this phone call, his racing heart and just as chaotic mind catching up to him. The surge of the alcohol finally cresting the Not Really Sober Anymore levels in his system causing everything to blur together. Or, maybe it was the emotional exhaustion finally crashing over him. 

"Bucky, please. Please."

Bucky ran his hand back over his face. 

"I'm sorry I called. Go back to sleep."

Bucky dropped his free hand, feeling the slight sting as his knuckles punched on top of the floorboards by his knees. His other hand loosened on the phone, letting it flop face up onto the bed beside his head. Burying his face back into the mess of blankets, he could still faintly hear Steve's voice yelling from wherever he still was, tucked away on the other side of the phone. 

"Bucky! Bucky, please. Just tell me where you are. Bucky? Bucky! Please, can you..."


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this one out.  
> (This story is actually an outline for me for a screenplay, and this scene isn't actually fully included in it, so I struggled a bit to find my footing. I hope it still works well with the story thus far. And...well, I wanted more Sam, too.)
> 
> Let me know what you think!

Sam hovered outside the closed door. His bare feet stuck to the wooden floorboards, his own body heat keeping his feet faux-glued to them. He hadn't noticed the stuttered breaths he had been breathing, his own subconscious forcing his body to remain as quiet as possible while he absolutely intruded on his friend's privacy. He had made a promise to himself, and even to Bucky, that he would try his best to hang back, allowing Bucky the freedom to grieve and figure out how to find his way through this completely twisted new way of life. He vowed to only intervene when Bucky was at a risk to himself. Sam couldn't live with that reality.

Not again.

So, that's how Sam found himself hesitating outside of Bucky's bedroom door, hand hovering just above the doorknob, fingers twitching with fear and readiness. An unnameable sound had roused Sam from his sleep. He tried to reach his ears across his own closed off bedroom to pinpoint the source of the noise, but he couldn't. So, he pulled himself up out of the comforts of his own blanketed jumble of warmth and padded out to the hallway. And that was what led him to Bucky's door. He could hear the muffled sobs and mumbled strings of words. _Who was he talking to? Himself? Someone on the phone? Who else does Bucky even KNOW these days?_

It wasn't until he heard the familiar thump of a cell phone landing on a wooden floor and the painful echo of a muffled sob, one that Sam could even feel the utter brokenness of, being screamed into a rumpled pile of blankets, that Sam found himself reacting without thinking. His fingers wrapped around the metal knob and his shoulder slammed against the wooden door, off handedly chastising the old features of his apartment for the doorframe swelling around the door itself at times, causing the damn door to stick. _Not the time, Wilson._ With just one foot in the doorway, Sam froze, taking in everything that had been hidden away a few moments ago.

Clothes were scattered across the floor, some folded, most haphazardly strewn anywhere gravity decided. Some protein and candy bar wrappers were mixed in with the chaos of clothes around the room. Blankets and sheets were tied up over the windows, keeping the room closed off from the outside world, glowing only under the sickening yellow desk light that was dangerously tipped, leaning against the far wall, lamp shade bent in and nearing the bulb itself, almost begging to combust and burn the place to the ground. Sam couldn't stop the rushing thought of poetic irony that was unfurling just to the left side of where Bucky was hunched over himself. _Seriously. What kind of fate would that be? Someone's got a sick sense of humor..._

Sam rushed in, finally remembering how to move his legs and feet. The adrenaline pumping through his veins dulled out the sounds in his ears. It wasn't until he was knelt down in front of Bucky's shaking, damn near seizing body, that Sam could finally hear the broken sobs wretching their way out of Bucky's throat. Sam tried his best to assess the situation, reminding himself to breathe, knowing he needed to settle himself before he had any chance of calming down Bucky. 

By Bucky's right bare foot, a muffled static kept breaking across the sobs and silence. Sam reached down and pried the discarded cell phone up from it's abandoned resting place within the surroundings of empty liquor bottles. _Holy shit, Buck. I know daily drunks who don't even put this much down._

Sam lifted the phone to his ear, clearing the static noises.

"Hello?"

"Bucky? Is that you? Oh my god, please. Talk to me! Where are you?"

Sam sat back on his knees, letting his weight from his thighs press into his heels.

"Hey, whoa. Slow down. Who is this?"

A rush of air forced itself into the receiver opposite of Sam. 

"Steve."

_Who the fuck is Steve?!_

"Uhm, hi...Steve. This is Sam. I'm Bucky's roomate."

A pause. Hesitation?

"Hi Sam. I'm...I'm a... _friend_...of Bucky's."

_Why did he say it like that?_

"You sure about that?"

Sam kind of felt bad for the chuckle that escaped him. _So not the time, Wilson._

"I...no, yeah. I mean, I guess? I've been talking to him down at the beach at night the past...uhm, the past few weeks."

Realization washed over Sam like the sunlight that had been devoid of this bedroom for, well, probably weeks. Bucky had been sneaking out when Sam had been sleeping to go meet up with this Steve guy at some beach somewhere. In the middle of winter. Well, okay then.

Before Sam could respond, Steve cut him off.

"Is...is Bucky okay? He called me...and he...he told me he wasn't okay. I tried to get him to tell me where he...where he was...but, uhm, he wouldn't answer me."

Sam had to take a moment for himself right then. It may have been selfish to think of anything but Bucky's immediate needs, but, well, fuck, he deserved that small little moment. Because, it was that one small fragment of time that he felt the overwhelming rush that someone else out there in that twisted, distorted, gone-to-shit little world was just as concerned about the fate of Bucky as he had been. The echoing, imaginary clanging of the weighted shackles pressing down on the sagging shoulders of his tired frame dissipated into the yellowed airy atmosphere around him. If a few tears of soul renewing relief slipped out of his eyes, well, then that wasn't really a concern to anybody else. _Totally crying._

Sam cleared his throat, not entirely trusting the strength of his vocal muscles to successfully push words out. But, hey, one Samuel Wilson liked a challenege. _Nope. Made that part up. Not true at all._

"Uhm, yeah, no...I mean, yeah. He's right...he's here."

"Okay."

The returning voice was so small, so quiet. If Sam's senses hadn't been so ramped up, there was a solid chance he absolutely would have missed it. 

"Seventh street. Corner building. Third floor."

Sam spit out his address before his mind could track down the negatives to letting some stranger know where he found his own piece of sanity and safety. All that was luring him along was the notion that if Bucky found comfort in the presence of this stranger on the other side of the phone line, Sam had to trust that. He pulled the phone away from his ear, finger gently pressing down on the end call button, quietly placing the phone on the bottom corner of the mattress behind Bucky. 

Sam let out a long sigh, letting his eyes roam over the crumpled form of what used to be his best friend. Bucky's knees were pulled up so tightly into his own chest that Sam was finding himself partially concerned about the flow of air Bucky might not actually be getting. If it weren't for the shaking gasps rattling out from within the balled up shape in front of him, Sam would probably be entirely concerned, instead of just partially. And if Sam hadn't known Bucky almost his entire lifetime, the vibrating muscles beneath his friend's skin would send off all the alarms within Sam's subconscious that Bucky may be having a seizure. But, the lifelong lack of any hinting of seizures and the overwhelming stench of the shittiest brand of whiskey Sam fully believed Bucky searched all over to find to keep any alcoholic withdrawals at bay, and probably some other things Sam didn't want to think about, the seizure conclusion fizzled away from the realm of possibility. 

No. Bucky was just quivering and shattering in front of Sam because the world fucking sucked. 

\------------------------------------

Sam had tried to pull some of the cluttered mess into smaller cluttered areas. Normally, by this point, he'd have run up and tackle hugged Bucky out of whatever funk he was in. But, Sam knew this wasn't a funk. This was something his Scream In Warning Before He Runs Up And Full On Bear Hugs couldn't really fix. No. This...this new world, as much as Bucky had been tripping and stumbling around all drunken-like, unsure of how to take the next shakiest of all steps...Sam was finding himself doing the same. Their lifetime of friendship still couldn't help Sam navigate to where they both needed him to be. 

So, he stuck with cleaning. Nervous/anxious cleaning. Something, anything, to keep his hands occupied, or his body moving somewhat, so he wouldn't sit still and ponder the fucked up mysterious why's of the world. He must have really been into his Spit N' Shine routine, because suddenly there was some blond guy standing in Bucky's bedroom doorway. 

In most circumstances, some strange dude standing in his apartment would send every single nerve in his body into high alert, firing at every metaphorical piston to attack and defend...but, in all honesty, Sam couldn't find it in him to exude the energy for it. _Whatever, dude. Come on in and stabby stab me. It'll keep me from cleaning up this guy's dirty ass underwear._

"Uhm, I wasn't really planning on, uhm...stabby stabbing you...but, I mean, if you...just let me grab my assortment of knives..."

Sam froze, mid-underwear-pick up. Literally. Bent over at the waist, ass somewhat sticking out, hip slightly jutted to the side, arm bent up like an awkward flamingo, boxer briefs dangling from his index and thumb pinched together...boxer briefs that were not his. 

"So, that was outloud, huh? Was supposed to be in my head, but..."

Sam sprung upright, realizing he was still daintily pinching Bucky's underwear and flung them to the side into the lump of clothing he had designated as the Smells Like They Should Have Been Cleaned With Gasoline And Matches Six Weeks Ago pile. ...there was a lot in that pile, so far. 

He walked past the silent contorted wreck of a Bucky ball shaped human and stuck out his hand.

"Sam."

Steve adjusted his weight, plucking a hand out from one of the pockets on the front of his coat, reaching and grasping Sam's hand in his own and shaking a few times.

"Steve."

They let go of one another's hands. Sam can't help but take in the mass of human in front of him, blond hair peeking out from underneath a knit hat, bright, deep blue eyes that Sam is almost positive have their own arms that reach out and can pull somebody into them and suffocate them with safety and comfort and understanding. Okay, maybe suffocate isn't the right word. Surround? Embrace? Whatever. _Dude's got soothing eyes._ Sam can absolutely understand how Bucky has been able to spend the past few weeks hanging out with this guy, he, himself, finding calmness within just a few moments of meeting the guy. With Bucky's fractured foundation, it doesn't surprise Sam that he would lean on something so solid. 

Even if that hurt, a bit. That Bucky couldn't find that sense of reprieve from Sam. But, Sam knew this wasn't about him. And that, as much as it hurt, Sam reminded Bucky of the life he used to have, the people that used to be in it...the dark haired, clear as the perfect summer day's sky blue eyes, innocently and furiously curious little girl that brought a light and breath into each and every person that had the most amazing fortune to cross her path. 

Sam reminded Bucky of his daughter, and Sam could never find a way to tell, or show Bucky how sorry he was that he would always be that constant reminder. 

Steve shifts his weight, fabric rubbing against each other as he does so. The soft noise kicks Sam out of his tangenting thoughts. 

"Shit, hey, sorry, man. Hey, uhm, look...it's great to meet you. Buck...he's uhm, he's had me kind of worried the past few weeks and...honestly, it makes me feel better that he hasn't been alone this whole time."

Steve's lips played at a shy smile, quickly lifting and falling back down as his eyes slid past Sam to the hunched over Bucky next to the mattress. Sam turned and looked over his shoulder, watching the twitch Bucky's shoulders still emitted from the half broken silent sobs still escaping him.

"I heard him talking, thought it was to himself. Came in and found him like this and then I heard you on the phone. I...I tried talking to him, see if I could pull him out of it...but, kind of realizing a lot of the things that used to work for us...well, it...it doesn't anymore."

Sam turned and looked back at Steve.

"Kind of hoping you had some ideas."

Steve looked almost taken back by the shoulder bearing weight Sam tossed on him. 

"Uhm...I mean...I...uhm, okay. I guess...I guess I can try?"

Sam pivoted on his foot, opening up the path to lead to Bucky. Steve looked at Sam one last time, a nervous half smile on his face before he stepped towards where Bucky sat on the ground. Sam watched as Steve hesitently walked over and knelt down beside Bucky, folding his legs underneath himself, leaving a few inches of necessary space between their shoulders. Sam exhaled forcibly, walking out of the bedroom and pulling the door closed, having to really yank on the doorknob to seal off the door in the swollen doorframe. 

_Please bring my friend back._

\----------------------------------------

Steve uncurled his legs from underneath his weight, pulling his knees into his chest. 

"Bucky?"

The room was eerily quiet, with the exception of Bucky's stuttered, sorrowful sobs. Steve's voice sounded so loud against the silencing airwaves. 

Steve pulled the knit cap off of his head, letting his blond locks flop around in their freedom. He tilted his head down, half hoping to see if he could catch Bucky's gaze. 

"Hey, Buck? It's me. It's Steve."

Bucky's breath calmed, or quieted, at least. Steve assumed it was the latter. 

"I hope it's okay that I'm here. You, uhm...you were making me nervous."

It felt like a thousand years had passed by between Steve's words. Bucky hadn't lifted his head up, or really even moved at all. Steve tried again.

"I...uhm, Sam, he heard me. On the phone. You...you called me. Do you remember?"

Bucky lifted his head up so quickly, so sharply, that Steve was slightly concerned about whiplash. And there was a blankness swarming inside of Bucky's eyes. It was almost as though Bucky hadn't even registered Steve's presence. And he still wasn't. Wherever Bucky's head was, it definitely wasn't there in that dimly lit bedroom with Steve.

Bucky's lips were pressed together tightly. Stubble littered across the indents and sharp lines of his jaw. Dark, puffy pillows lay beneath Bucky's eyes, almost illuminating the gray steel toned blues of his irises, the color swarming with a hint of something else that only ever surfaces when those with light colored eyes cry. It's almost as though the color shift of the eyes gives life to the sadness that floods out of them, gives the sorrow a distinctive hue for it to call it's own. Dark hair twisted into clumps, sticking out in every which way, evidence of where Bucky had run his shaking fingers through it in anguish. His paled skin had a thin sheen of sweat coating over it. His cheeks had trails of dried out and salty soaked past and present tears, seeping out of his bloodshot eyes. 

If Crumpled Pile Of Human Bones And Skin was an acceptable description of somebody...Bucky would be it at that moment.

And if Steve could retell the motions that fell into place with how Bucky's head ended up crashing into Steve's magically outspread leg, cushioning the fast approaching skull into muscled thigh...he would eagerly tell them. But, nope, all of a sudden, there was a head in his lap and fingers running through gnarled up dark brown hair as broken sobs stained against his jeans. 

And that's how they sat. For god knows how long. 

Fingers twisting and breaths hitching.


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings I guess for post panic attacks.
> 
> Bucky swears a lot in this, too. 
> 
> Maybe a warning for sarcasm? Sure. Why not? Bucky's full of that sass. Might of got carried away with it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

Bucky pulled himself back up into a seated position. Eyes were blurry and having a slightly difficult time processing the faint amount of light streaming in as the world suddenly crashed in around him. _Fuck._ He always hated when he disappeared like that. It had only been a recent experience, one he had been oh so not at all eager to have. 

He quickly scanned the room, letting his body feel the numbing tingling sensation beneath his ass against the hardwood floor. Small piles had magically collected themselves along the floor. _Magic? Really?_

_Fuck off. Brain still currently turning itself back on._

_Fine. I'll give you this one. Not magic, dumbass. Just Sam._

Just Sam? Pretty sure in everything going wrong in Bucky's world, diminishing all the golden lightness that was Sam...Bucky was positive Sam was everything more than **Just Sam**. 

His eyes still felt a little hazy, scratchy from the outside in. His head ached in that very specific way, the way the universe wanted to fist poundingly remind somebody that, Yup, they absolutely had been crying. Almost like a regular headache, but bathed and soaked in sorrow and soul draining emptiness that left anybody feeling like an entire fleet of semi-trucks ran them over. Then, so graciously, flipped on their little Beepy Watch Out Noises and backed right the fuck back over them, only to shine their high beams straight into the tear soaked, salt stained, Sad-As-Fuck eyeballs staring back up at them...and then proceed to slam their foot on the gas pedal and floor it back over them. 

_...whoa. Vivid._

_...yeah. That one got away from me._

_...apparently._

Bucky had been so lost in his stuttered re-awakening to the world around him, and the weird little piles of his sad laziness...and the not necessary vivid description of a Crying Headache...that when a shuffle of fabric wrinkled across the silence of his bedroom...there may have been a one hundred percent chance Bucky flinched and possibly got enough airtime to allow his ass bone area to feel the full brunt of his Buck-Something Pounds of Weight. 

_Did you really just forgot the word 'tailbone'?_

_...maybe._

_And, just to clarify, there was absolutely a one hundred percent chance you jumped in the air because Steve shifted._

_Listen! Nobody really asked you to...wait, what!? Steve?_

Bucky turned his head slowly, half wondering if his mind had finally gone off the proverbial deep end and was now starting to make shit up _(I'm not, you ass.)_ But, nevertheless, Steve was sitting on the ground beside Bucky, hands folded in his lap, eyes big and so fucking blue, staring over at Bucky. 

"Hey."

Bucky's throat was raw, scratchy, like a side of the road, flea infested cat got its claws deep into the lining of his windpipe and just went to town. 

"Hey."

Steve's voice was soft, strained, subdued, some more S words...because, well, alliteration.

"What's up?"

_Real subtle, Buck._

_Shut it. Trying to make this whole thing less awkward._

_And you went with that?_

Bucky prayed to whatever kind of Higher Up Person Chillin' In The Sky Or Whatever that the groan he growled back to himself wasn't ever actually audible. 

"Oh, just hanging out." 

Steve smirked. Bucky was having a Not Fun Field Day trying to figure out why the fuck the damn stupid idiot was smirking at him. 

"Oh. Cool. Cool."

_Really killing it with this non-chalant thing you got going on..._

_You got any better ideas?_

_You gonna actually listen to me this time?_

_Not a fucking chance, Connie._

_Stop calling me that!_

_Nahhh._

Oh, shit, yeah, Steve. 

Bucky had most definitely been staring at Steve. Because, he was an awkward human being and what else would he do in this kind of situation?

Exactly.

Steve tilted his head a little to the side, keeping the questionable eye contact with Bucky.

"Up for a walk?"

There's that whole clichè thing about letting out a breath the person hadn't known they'd been holding. Well, that moment just happened. And, whoa, it was one hell of an exhale. Steve's bangs even fluttered in the Category 3 Tornado Winds-like Exhale. Bucky almost felt guilty for the way his breath probably smelled. Like whiskey and Side Of The Road Dumpster Cats. Very alluring aroma he had brewing in his tooth trap. 

Oh, right, he needed to respond. 

"Fuck, yes." 

\-------------------------------------

Neither of them actually verbalized a destination once they both bundled themselves up and stumbled out the door of the apartment. Steve had shot a look of warm thanks over towards Sam, attempting to be subtle about it, but Ha! Bucky definitely saw it. 

He had no idea what to do with the information, but, well, yeah, he absolutely saw it! 

They barely spoke on their Aimless Walking Adventure. Hands stuffed into coat pockets and breaths mingling in the air via whitish swirls of carbon dioxide. 

"Hey...so, just to address the whole stalker vibe thing you're kind of putting out there...how exactly did you know where I lived?"

Bucky definitely saw the stuttering stumbling step Steve somehow managed to overcome without fully faceplanting onto the concrete sidewalk. 

"You...uhh...you don't remember?"

Bucky's face hardened. Shit. Did something happen? Did he do something? Did he say something? Fuck.

"Uhhh..."

Steve stopped mid-step. Bucky tripped and narrowly avoided his own faceplanting as he stopped and faced Steve. 

"Bucky, you called me."

_What? When?_

"What? When?"

Bucky rolled his eyes to himself. As much as he appreciated himself for thinking before speaking again, maybe next sentence could be just spit out. Seems like these answers and questions should have some more urgency to them and not some three second delay so a thought can be made prior to speaking. 

_That whole thing was at least six seconds of wasted thoughts. But, kudos on NOT paying attention._

_Fuck!_

"...you weren't saying anything and I was started to freak a little. Sam must have heard you doing something and...he...he picked up the phone. Told me what you were...what was going on. Gave me the address. He uhh...guess he thought maybe I could help? I don't know..."

Steve shifted on his feet, almost uncomfortable with that kind of responsibility Sam had placed onto Steve's shoulders. Bucky knew he lost pieces of time and memory when he went into his Freak Out Phases...but, well, sometimes he doesn't actually remember having them until someone tosses out all those missing details to him and watch him fumble trying to catch them all. 

"Oh."

That was all Bucky could respond with. He turned awkwardly on his heel, the concrete grinding under the motion, as he dug his hands deeper into his pocket and continued on their Aimless Walking Adventure. He could hear the stuttering steps from Steve as he jogged to catch up to Bucky's pace. 

They walked in silence, after that. Just the shuffling of their feet and the light wintery exhales filling the quiet spaces all around them. 

\----------------------------------------

By the time they reached the boardwalk, Bucky let the realization wash over him that this place, this small stretch of oceanic sand and surf was where the two of them felt the most at peace. If that's actually something one could associate with either of them. Peace would never fully wrap itself around Bucky, no, not ever again. And Bucky had the feeling peace would never find it's way back into Steve's skin. There was too much guilt swirling inside of them to let anything else settle in. So, maybe, this place wasn't so much about finding their lost peace, but more or less to acknowledge it's loss from their worlds. A way to mourn that loss, along with all the other things they had lost along the way. 

Or, maybe Bucky just liked the way the waves sounded, crashing just loudly enough to dull out the overwhelming thoughts sprinting full speed, olympian style, across the mushy parts of his brain. And, maybe it was the fact that the only people who seemed to show up here were suffering the same expansive emptiness that Bucky had, the kind that had burrowed it's way through his soul, through his very core, and left him knowing there was absolutely no way back from that darkness. That is, unless somebody asked Boy Wonder over there, the one sitting down beside Bucky on that lonely wooden bench on the boardwalk. Yeah, that Boy Wonder fully believed he could save Bucky. 

No. Bucky still didn't want to be saved. 

_...yes, you do._

It was the first time Connie had whispered to Bucky. Almost like an afterthought...a fleeting glimpse at a thought that went as quickly as it came. Bucky even had to blink his eyes a few times, hoping that would somehow process what exactly his conscience had just said. 

_No, I don't._

Bucky tried to make his In Head Voice sound tough, assertive...sure of itself. It didn't come off that way. Can inner thoughts and inner dialogue really have their own voices crack and waiver? They can? Shit. 

_...yes, you do._

There it was again. That tiny little whisper. It was throwing Bucky off, the softeness of it all. Bucky was so used to arguing with his own mind over what was right and wrong, worth it and not, that the fragility of the whisper was enough to absolutely fucking break him. 

The weight of the endless world around him suddenly felt too much. Too much noise. Too much light. Too much of everything he didn't want to think about anymore. He just wanted it all to stop. Just for a moment. He just wanted to breathe. He just wanted to flop onto his knees and feel the dirt beneath his body, and Just. Breathe. 

He lowered his head down to the side, tipping his body until the firmness of his skull crashed kind-of, sort-of slightly hard into the protruding, but seasonally padded shoulder blade of Steve. Bucky did another one of those exhales, the one he didn't know he was holding so desparately onto. 

"I'm tired." 

Steve shifted, adjusting the positioning of his body to allow some more shoulder for Bucky to press into. 

"I know."

Steve's voice was about as soft as that breathy whisper from Bucky's conscience. Who was being pretty obnoxiously quiet, at the moment...

....

Bucky rolled his eyes. _Fine. Whatever. Don't talk._

Bucky stared out at the ocean, taking in the new angled view of the same shoreline he had been staring into for the last few weeks. It was still dark enough to keep the water blackened and terrifying, but enough of the dim boardwalk lights reached across the sand to highlight the salted foamy breaks the waves still made against the beach. Bucky watched them rise and fall, crash and retreat, over and over and over again. So carefree, so simple, so neverending. 

"Can I ask you something?"

Steve barely shifted his weight, pulling out a "sure" from inside his body.

"Why the beach?"

Bucky lifted his head up off of Steve's shoulder, turning at his waist to look at Steve. Steve slowly turned his body to face Bucky, small smirk twitching at his lips. He dipped his head down slightly, roughing up his voice. 

"I thought we went over this. Remember? The whole save the world one man mission thing?"

Bucky huffed out a small laugh. At least Steve was kind of sassily funny. _Sassily? Totally a word._

"No, not that."

Steve titled his head to the side, thoughtful confusion settling within those vibrant blue eyes. 

"Then what?"

Bucky looked out back to the ocean briefly, mentally snapshotting the view before them. As though this moment, this one may be the last time he ever sees the water again. With Steve by his side. He hated that slinking feeling behind his bones, but it kept oozing itself over his bones and he couldn't help the flickering thoughts. 

"You look at the water like it's telling you something."

"It is."

Bucky turned and looked back at Steve. Steve's answer had been so quick, no hesitation and full of sureness. _Shh, sureness is a word, too. Look it up. No, don't actually. I have no idea if it's really a word._

"What's it saying?"

Bucky was now way too thoroughly confused and intrigued. At least he only talked to himself. This Steve guy had some wide open ocean talking to him. Bucky didn't want to call a crazy, well, crazy. But, shit, Steve was acting kind of crazy. Steve turned to face the water again.

"That it doesn't give a shit about me."

Again, Bucky was so taken back by the surety, _Pretty sure that's some kind of financial bond...not the word you want in this context, Bucko_ , of Steve's response, that it took him a few half-seconds to reply. 

"Wow. That's super comforting."

Seriously. 

"No, it's..."

Bucky watched as Steve's chest rose, filling from the deep intake of air, watching it settle under his ribs and even out across his skin. 

"When you look at the ocean, what do you see?"

Steve's focus was still on the water, eyes narrowing slightly, in a way that led Bucky to believe Steve was internally answering his own question while he waited for Bucky's.

Bucky let his eyes roam past Steve, past the railings of the boardwalk, past the damp sandy beach surface, past the foamy crested waves and into the darkened abyss. 

"Uhh...I see...water?"

Steve huffed out an exhale. Not in annoyance or frustration, just in the way that maybe Steve had sucked in too much air that last sharp inhale. 

"When I look at the ocean...I see this endless void that at any moment can rise and pull me under. Enough pressure deep inside that it can force the air out of my lungs and literally crush every one of my bones. It can peel off my skin after enough time and I'd be left faceless, body-less...lifeless."

Bucky stared out at the water, a new rush of fear and finality washing over him, _Ha! Get it?_

_I liked it better when we weren't talking._

_Wow. You're such a downer, Connie._

"Yeah, if you're trying to make some comforting point, you're way off."

Bucky could absolutely hear the way Steve rolled his eyes, even without looking at him. 

"Listen. Just listen for a second."

Bucky paused himself. His mind. His mouth. His breathing. And he...he just listened.

He listened as each wave rose and fell. He listened as they each roared and dulled the higher and smaller they got. He listened as the sand swallowed the brunt of each impact, enticing the salty waters to foam in rebellion against it's grainy welcoming mat. He listened. And it was too soothing, enough so that when Steve's voice cut through, a surge of irritation shredded across Bucky's spine at the disruption of the sounds.

"All of that violent rage...and that's the noise it makes. That's the sound you'd get to hear. If the ocean ever rose up to drown me, I honestly couldn't find anything violent about it. Because, deep in that void, there's worlds we haven't seen, can't even begin to know about. This entire life is beneath us and we don't know it...can't ever know it."

"I still don't get it."

Honestly, Bucky still wasn't following. 

"The ocean could kill me, absolutely. In a heartbeat. But, it...it doesn't."

Bucky wanted to say something about where exactly they were, about the irony of the entire situation they were currently in. Sure, the ocean itself might not swallow you up whole and never spit you back out again, but...this small stretch of ocean...this stretch of sea became notoriously known for that one very specific thing. 

Steve lost someone to those waters. Lost someone deep beneath the surface. And he was sitting there, sprawled somewhat along the bench beside Bucky, spitting out these lies ontop of lies about how beautiful the ocean is and how it doesn't try and kill Steve. 

Because, it HAS killed people. And Steve couldn't save them. 

It was all too much for Bucky to process, especially Post Freak Out Phase. The entire conversation would have to take the imgainary back seat for a while. It was all just too too much. 

He let his head loll to the side again, softly landing, this time, against Steve's shoulder. 

"I'm still tired."

Steve shifted slightly, allowing for his own head to lean back against the toppest, _Don't care. Not attempting to be grammatically correct right now. Toppest is a new word, and it works in that sentence..._ , railing of the wooden bench. Bucky's eyes had slid closed, breath evening out before he could really grasp what he was doing. 

It was just before the Not So Familiar Land of Sleep took Bucky as it's hostage that he heard the soft whispering from Steve.

"I know."

Bucky half thought about something to do with Star Wars or something before his world collided into unconsciousness.


	14. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More from Bucky's POV.
> 
> I'll toss a warning for a drowning. 
> 
> Hopefully this one isn't all over the place. I was having a tough time getting from the last chapter to where I ended on this one, so I could go into what's going to happen in the next chapter.
> 
> Let me know what you think!

Bucky woke with an annoying crink in his neck. _Crink? Crick? Ache? Whatever...neck fucking hurts..._ Bucky blinked open his eyes. The world had been wiped clean. A blank, off-white canvas stretched for miles before him. Lighting flawless. No imperfections. No variations in tone. Just a forever of off-white. Sprinkled with soft specks of reds and blues that only lasted for fragments of seconds, twinkling like far off stars dying out their last flicker of light, deep crimson reds and oceanic blues fading out into the softest cherry pinks and palest baby blues. 

A bird floated by, outspreading its wings, wind ruffling along its shimmering feathers and its body wobbling beautifully within its unmarked flight path. The simplicity it wove, flapping its outstretched limbs, climbing and falling across the push and pull of all that blankness around him. 

Had Bucky died? And this was Heaven? Or, better yet, purgatory? Purgatory had nothingness to it, right? Just wide open emptiness? _Wait. It's the middle of fucking winter. How is there a bird?_

Bucky blinked again. He shifted his weight and his head lolled forward. Oh. He was staring at the sky. Oh. And those weren't red and blue stars. 

Oh. 

_Oh. Shit._

Fire engines, ambulances and police cruisers scattered themselves along the wide opening down the boardwalk, and had trickled down onto the beach in front of them. Men and women dressed in varying concoctions of diving gear, scorched turnout gear, flourescent yellow EMT jackets, and deep, dark navy police uniforms muddled around the empty spaces between the vehicles. 

Two paramedics poked their heads up from underneath the water. Bucky watched in frozen disbelief as one of them waved a red wetsuited arm over their head, signaling for a backboard to be rushed over. Two other awaiting paramedics in matching red and black wetsuits clammered into the icy waters, salty spray kicking up around them. 

Bucky felt the denim fabric against his thigh shift and suddenly run cold. He struggled to break his widened eyes away from the surreal scene in front of him to look down. 

An empty lap and a soft voice saying, "Hey, what's..." just before breaking and slipping back off into the chaotic stillness of the early morning hours.

But, to his right, a rigid Steve, still half slumped over, weight pressing mostly on Steve's left hand that was trembling either from the cold of the morning or from the responsibility of somehow holding himself upright...or from the shock of what was happening before them. Bucky could still see sleep nestling itself in between Steve's bones as Steve stared, mouth partially gaping open. Bucky turned back to face the water. 

He watched as the backboard dipped beneath the surface. He watched as a lifeless form was slid onto it. He watched as the four paramedics struggled against the tide to reach the shoreline. He watched as awaiting paramedics took over the weight of the backboard. He watched as a white sheet was sprawled across the lifeless form. He watched as the dripping wet divers pulled at their equipment, desperate for warmer clothes. He watched as police officers radioed in whatever the hell they radioed in. 

"Steve..."

Before Bucky could even turn back to face him...before he could find the volume his voice needed in that moment...he knew Steve was standing up beside him.

Bucky turned, eyes slowly shifting across the graphic scene in front of him, quickly pausing as he caught sight of a pair of discarded shoes just past where he would, himself, jump down off the railings from the boardwalk, and finally drew his eyes to reach Steve. 

Bucky could see the way Steve's body was damn near vibrating, eyes bulging and unblinking. Disbelief washing over Steve, in much the same way it had Bucky. 

"Steve..."

Bucky's voice has finally found it's volume, cracking into Steve's stilled silence, ricocheting off of his every startled bone, and forcing reality to come hammering back down against him. Steve's body slowly turned to face Bucky, and he almost wished Steve had stayed stock still. 

The look of pure horror and anger, speckled with grief and absolute hopelessness was enough to destroy any facade Bucky may have been contemplating building up. 

"Steve...hey, look at me..."

Bucky forced the words out, forced himself to smooth out those roughened seams. 

Steve didn't so much as flinch. Just stared. So, Bucky turned back, and stared along with him. 

Both Steve and Bucky watched as the lifeless, white clothed draped body was secured into the back of the ambulance, lights turned off, because, well, what's the rush? _Not the time for the morbid humor, Bucky..._ One by one, the ambulances and police cruisers filed their way off the beach, each emergency response personnel filtering themselves amongst the departing vehicles. And Bucky and Steve were left in the aftermath, with only the rhythm of the waves to keep them from the strangling silence. 

"Fuck!" 

The sudden, sharp tone of Steve's word startled Bucky, enough to rattle the wooden bench beneath his limbs. 

"Hey! Whoa, this isn't your fault, Steve."

Bucky believed every word out of his own mouth. Just as much as he believed Steve would refuse to accept them. 

"If...if I was down there...if I wasn't being so fucking st......I could have saved them..."

Steve's voice had crested down into the unsettling area of dulled out and monotoned speech. It struck Bucky in ways he couldn't begin to describe. It was almost broken, in a way, shards of something that once used to be there. Bucky knew what Steve had hinted at. He knew if Steve hadn't come to his rescue, like he was some damn fucking damnsel in distress and Steve answered the bullshit call to come and be the hero in disguise...if Bucky could have just kept his shit together...

"Why? Why is it up to you to save them, huh?"

Bucky could feel the twinge of anger pulsing against his tongue as his words slipped out. So much so, that when Steve turned, full body, and glared at Bucky, the sharpness of his words wasn't that much of a shock. 

"Do you see anybody else lining up for it?"

Bucky was speechless for a moment, staring at the heartbreak etching itself all over Steve's entire being, Steve's arm spread out wide, almost like he was performing for some twisted Off Broadway play...the ocean and the sorrow as his audience, just waiting for something to heckle him, awaiting his non-existent bow to the silent applause. But, even the brokenness of Steve's demeanor couldn't subside the anger bubbling inside of Bucky.

"It's not a job...and it's not your fucking responsibility. They made that choice. Not you. You gotta stop with this hero complex you've got going on with all of this, Steve."

Steve turned back, his lower lip trembling as the tears pooled along the ridges of his eyes. If it were any other moment, Bucky would have easily allowed himself to fall into the deepening tides of Steve's eyes, the way they shifted and toppled over the chromatic waves of blues and greens, putting to shame any other hue that attempted to once call itself aqua. 

"I could have saved them."

Steve stared at Bucky, eyes hardened and unsure, a deep, dense void billowing up into the blue that lived there, reaching out and pulling them down into the darkness of self-doubt and isolation. Before Bucky could spit out more of his very repetitive argument they seemed to be having, Steve twisted, heels digging against the boardwalk, turning and walking away from where Bucky stood.

"Is that what this whole thing about? You sleeping under the boardwalk at night? Sitting and waiting, just in case someone decides 'Whelp, tonight's the night I'm gonna throw myself into the ocean. I hope no one stops me.' And, then you jump out of the shadows and swoop in to save the fucking day? Really?" 

Bucky's entire body had been vibrating, stuttering and scrambling around the literal word vomit he just upchucked all over the distance between them. Steve stopped, frozen, one leg still bent slightly behind him, toes just barely touching the ground, as he let Bucky's words lasso themselves around him and lure him back in.

"Shut up." 

Steve had mumbled over his shoulder, and Bucky was almost certain if his nerves weren't so tightly pulled, he probably would have missed it.

"Just, wow. Wow! You are un-fucking-believable, Steve. Really. You're missing your cape, there."

Bucky was teetering the safety ledge of being understanding and being downright fucking bullshit. No. This asshole, this seemingly Secret Guardian Fucking Angel was trying to atone for some Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day from his past, vowing, apparently, to save the entire fucking world. Yeah, damn fucking right, Steve was missing his stupid cape. 

"I said, shut up."

Steve's word spit out like acid. Like when an old battery is found in the deepest junk drawer, bubbles stained and spewing out the sides, forgotten power wrapped up in a Duracell logo...and curious childhood hands and minds, ignore every warning, and shove their fingers into the goop, to see if the battery acid really burns. If words could feel like that...

"What, just because you lost someone you loved out there, and you felt like it was your fault...you think you have to save every single person to try and make up for it somehow? To make yourself feel like you're not a failure? Cuz, I gotta say, that's twisted as fuck, Steve. Not everybody wants to be saved. You really need to..."

Blinding white pierced across Bucky's vision. Not the soothing kind from earlier, where blue and red stars flickered soothingly across the off-white canvas of imaginary life, and birds flapped their wings all carefree and junk. No. This blinding white seering flash carried sharp pain across his cheeks. 

Steve had punched him. 

Square in the fucking nose.

And, instead of all that beautiful array of reds and blues, Bucky felt the warm crimson blood drip through his fingers that had risen up to try and do something to his maybe broken face. 

"You motherfuck..."

Bucky's words sounded jarbled, soaked with his own blood. 

"Go fuck yourself."

Steve had interrupted Bucky's bloody insult, his own words flat, even toned and menacing all at the same time.

Bucky watched, hand still stuck to his face, feeling the blood coagulate and glue his skin to his own skin, as Steve turned and marched defiantly along the boardwalk, away from him. 

_You know you deserved that, right?_

\-------------------------------------------

Bucky traced the toes of his shoes across the tiled floor. Another group therapy meeting. Another hour where Bucky pulled his arms in to wrap tightly around himself, let his legs bounce along to some sorrowful rhythm nobody else could hear, and clench his jaw tight enough to feel bits of his own teeth grinding off into the back of his throat. 

The counselor in charge of the group therapy meeting had given Bucky a strange, concerned look when he entered the oversized room. Bucky knew his face was puffy, splotches of deep purple and fading reds splattered across the bridge of his nose, mingling in with the already deepend shades of purples seemingly permanently nestled under each eye. Whatever. Bucky didn't give a shit anymore.

The only real interaction he had, outside of the bullshit mandated therapy sessions, and tensed and stilted conversations with Sam, Steve had been the only outsource Bucky had to attempt and make sense of the chaos inside of his head. But, watching that body be pulled out from that water brought all of Bucky's misguided intentions back, full force, crashing mindlessly and carelessly into Bucky's soul, dragging him back down into that darkness he once had a hand or two sticking out and away from. 

But, watching Steve react the way he had, it stole every positive interaction between himself and Steve away and stomped it right into the ground. Steve didn't actually give a shit. No. He was just after some personal vendetta against the world, to right some wrong in his world. He didn't really care if Bucky lived or died. No. Bucky was just another number to add to Steve's ridiculous list. Saved and Not Saved. 

Well, fuck that. 

\-----------------------------------------

Bucky was surprised to find Steve down at the beach again, later that night. But, then again, Bucky really didn't give a shit anymore. Nope. The pint of whiskey coarsing through his veins probably wasn't helping any, either. Whatever. 

Bucky might, also, have stumbled into the railing on the boardwalk, and very un-gracefully tipped himself over the railing, landing on his side in the sand below. There may, also, have been a very undignified sound that wheezed out of him as his ribs collided with the partially soft sandy surface. He groaned as he pushed himself up, feet struggling to find balance in the uneven ground. 

When he managed to make his way over to where Steve was sitting, _his usual spot. So unoriginal, Steven. Pfffft. Ha._ , he absolutely plopped himself down beside him, feet kicked out in front of him, arms spread out awkwardly beside him as he fought the world for a moment in regards to the idea of gravity and what-not. 

Steve side-eyed Bucky, taking in a subtle whiff, scoffing loudly at the familiar stench of cheap whiskey oozing out of Bucky. Bucky tilted his head, eyes finding difficulty focusing on Steve, but somehow managing to appear to be doing so...as long as the subtle head bobbing was ignored. 

"Ya'know...Stevie...you...know...what they...what they say 'bout savin'...savin' broken people?"

Bucky lifted the bottle back, pressing the opening to his lips, drinking down a large gulp of the amber liquid. The lights from along the boardwalk sparkled dimly against the glass bottle, reflections of wanna-be stars piercing along the darkened nighttime air around them. He tipped the bottle forward, angling it towards Steve, like a drunken professor pointing some pompous wooden pointer at the blackboard to emphasize their words. 

"They...they get cut...on the pieces."

Steve slowly turned his head, eyes narrowing as he looked at Bucky, taking in his smirk and flittering eyes. 

"A box of bandaids costs a buck fifty."

Steve mumbled, reaching a hand up, snatching the bottle from Bucky's dipping hand with more ferocity than probably necessary. He brought the bottle to his lips, and without breaking eye contact, sat back and chugged down three large gulps, settling in behind the burn rushing down his throat, and the warmth radiating through to the tips of his fingers. 

They sat for a while, uncomfortable silence spreading out thin between them. 

"Things don't just go away because you find ways to avoid them, you know. They're still gonna be there when you're not drunk anymore."

Steve's voice was quiet, a truth he seemed he wasn't so sure he was telling to Bucky or to himself. 

"Guess I just hafta keep drinkin'." 

Bucky smirked, half drunkenly asleep before he could finish getting the words out. 

\-----------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Steve's POV chapter up next.  
> More of Bucky's POV as well.
> 
> And...I'm sorry in advance...


	15. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for sad thoughts, drinking, and some more sad thoughts?

Steve let the sting of the whiskey ache down his throat, savoring the burn, savoring the sensation. He had polished off the last sips of the whiskey, since stealing it away from Bucky waving it in his face. It had been so long since he could feel anything beyond the numbness that had been buried inside of himself. Watching everything unfold the morning before, the onslaught of people pushing against the waters, the onslaught of flashing lights and emergency vehicles crowding the beach...it broke something deep down inside of himself. It had startled Steve, at first, the realization that he even still had anything left inside of himself to break. 

Bucky had passed out beside him. His body contorted in such a way that if he didn't have all that booze seeping along his veins, there was absolutely no way he could have actually been comfortable. Strange, how alcohol can do that. How it can numb the mind and numb the bones, all at the same time? Bucky's face was pressed partially into the sand, mouth agape, soft puffs escaping, scattering the top most layer of sand along itself. A few particles stuck themselves to the wetness along Bucky's lips. Steve cared, only a small fragment. Deep purpling had shadowed over Bucky's nose. Steve figured it had to hurt, the way Bucky's face was half buried in the sand, but...again, the wonderful effects of alcohol. 

He remembered back to their argument yesterday morning, just before Steve punched Bucky in the face. Steve still didn't feel bad about that. Bucky was being a dick. He deserved it. And Steve **did** ask him a few times to shut it. Whatever. 

It bothered Steve, straight through to his core, that Bucky didn't understand why Steve did what he did, night after night. Sure, Steve understood the feeling of losing everything and unable to find your way back from that bottomless pit of despair... Well, then again, Steve had never lost a child. But, he still couldn't understand Bucky's one way thinking. Not that Steve was any different, in his stubborn as shit ways...but, this wasn't about him. 

Nothing was ever about him, anymore. He made sure of that. Steve didn't want anyone to bleed for him, to fight the world for him, to try and make Steve believe he had so much left to offer. No. That was Steve's role. He didn't need to be saved. He knew what he was here for, what he was supposed to do. He failed once, and he was going to break into a million pieces to make sure it never happened again. 

...but, it HAS happened. He hasn't been able to save every person who has step foot on that beach. No. He remembers all of them. Their names. Their faces. Their stories. 

He has all of their shoes lined up underneath the boardwalk. Nobody ever seems to look around for them. They're always pulled off just below the boardwalk. Steve figures the broken hearted just want to feel the sand between their toes one last time... So, he collects them, has them tucked away along one of the support beams, overhead of where he lays for shelter from the rain sometimes. He counts them each, reminding himself of the stories...of the Why's that brought those people there those nights. Their faces are the only things he sees when he closes his eyes. Not the faces of them before the water. No. The faces of them after. The faces without any life etched into them. 

Those are the faces he deserves to remember. The ones he has failed.

And, now, Bucky was doing everything he could to force another failure onto Steve's shoulders. To add another pair of shoes to go underneath that boardwalk. And, well, honestly, Steve was starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, Steve wasn't cut out for all of this anymore. Sure, Bucky wasn't **trying** to break Steve down. No. He was just showing Steve that he didn't want Steve to break apart to fix him...because, as much as Steve hated to admit it...Bucky absolutely believed he wasn't worth saving anymore...because he just didn't want to be. 

So, that's where Steve sat, his mind screaming into itself, fighting some invisible battle, a war waged amongst what the world crumbled to in front of him, and the imaginary reality Steve still clung so blindly to. But, even that grasp was slipping, fingertips numbing and slowly letting go. 

He desperately wanted to put into words what it felt like inside of himself, inside of his bones; to be tired. He always had a hard time explaining it, to everyone who just couldn't understand it. He was tired. His entire body ached. But, it was a different tired compared to what everyone else felt. Everyone else had their reasons for being tired; work, kids, stress, etc etc... He always felt he didn't have one. He never had one. The loss of his parents, sure. The loss of his brother. Sure, that too. But, this was different. It was just who he was. His eyes rarely closed. His body rarely rested. He would spend days after nights awake, spinning lost in a quiet, sleeping world. His tiredness echoed with each step he took and every word he couldn't say to try and make anyone understand.

But, tonight...the reality set in, harsh points digging into every surface around him.

He was tired.  
And, he couldn't fix it.  
He couldn't fix anything. 

\------------------------------------------

Steve wasn't sure how much time had passed. He had lost count of the snuffled snores from Bucky's unconsciousness beside him, finding himself lost in the soft mixture of noises around him. His mind was loud, too loud, and Steve has forced himself to ignore the racing thoughts. 

His body moved before his mind could catch up. Before he even knew what was happening, he had his shoes off, jacket slid down off of his arms, and he was waist deep in the ocean water, watching with a blankness in his eyes as the water curled around his stomach. He could feel the vibration of the cold tensing across his body. And, then, without thinking, he let his muscles fall, ducking his head under the surface, feeling the rush of ice coldness break over his skin. His breath stuck inside of his lungs as he let the salt water sting into his eyes, the world blurring around him, a watery bed luring him in. 

When his mind finally caught up, his bared feet dug into the mucky surface beneath him, toes melting into the seaweeds and sandy ledges, pushing himself back up and breaching out of the surface. Air wheezed into his lungs, an ache resonating deep inside of his chest as the cold rattled around him. 

White wisps of exhale twisted and swirled around him, teeth chattering so loudly, he was sure the lost souls at the bottom of the sea could hear them. He wrapped his arms around his chest, fingers clawing into opposing arms, pressing his body into himself to protect what little heat he had left inside of his skin as he pushed along with the flowing tide, trudging back to the beach. 

He flopped down into the sand, cold and wet denim clinging against his legs, hardening in the wintery weather. His hands shook as he slid dry socks and shoes back over his ghostly white feet, arms relaxing from their tension as they slid into the warmth of his jacket. He pulled his legs into his chest, arms wrapping around his knees, centering all of his body heat as his muscles relaxed from their shivering dance. 

Steve had no idea what had come over him, what lured him into the water. But, then again, that was always the mystery of this patch of water. The temptation to wash it all away. And, Bucky...had slept through the entire thing.

\----------------------------------------

More time had passed by. Steve unclasped his hands, leaning over and nudging Bucky's shoulder, pushing and pushing until mumbled protests spilled out of those sandy lips. 

"What?"

There was a harshness to Bucky's voice, a coating of dreamless sleep slurring the volume slightly.

"Why do you keep insisting you don't deserved to be saved?"

Steve had tried to hold back the urgency in his voice, but he needed to know. He needed to know why Bucky felt this way. He needed to know why he just couldn't get through to Bucky... 

Bucky had finally managed to push himself up out of the sand, repositioning himself to sit upright beside Steve. His voice was still rough, but softly loosening with each syllable. His eyes glazed over to Steve, taking in dampened hair, rigid denim and shivering limbs. 

"Why are you wet?"

Steve shook his head, one hand releasing itself from its returned grasp across his tucked in knees, waving absently in the air between them. 

"Answer me, please."

There was an obvious desperation in Steve's voice, in his words. 

Bucky swallowed thickly, glancing between Steve and the water in front of them. He let out a long sigh, head tilting forward, almost searching for the response. 

"That's not what I said."

"Kind of is, Bucky..."

Steve glanced back out to the water, subconsciously searching for some reassurance in his assumption. 

"Okay, then it's not what I meant."

Bucky had been glancing out at the water, too. Steve couldn't figure out why, what he was searching for. 

"Then, what did you mean?"

Steve turned back to face Bucky, curiosity swarming in his eyes.

"I don't deserve to have someone waste their own life to save mine, to use up all of their strength on me."

Bucky's voice had dropped, not so much a whisper, but not as direct as he usually is. 

Steve watched Bucky for a moment, watching his eyes flick across the dark waves lapping at the shore, a subtle sorrow shading along the pale blueness of his eyes, the color so sad and vibrant in their despair that they could even be seen in the darkness. 

\------------------------------------------

Time passed by them some more, itching and scratching along their own individual timelines. The silence wasn't comforting, but it wasn't unwelcomed, either. 

"I'm not strong. Not anymore."

Steve almost whispered his delayed thoughts over to Bucky.

"What if I tell you I disagree with that."

"Then, I'll tell you you're a damn liar."

Steve chuckled at his reply, a certain stubborn belief in his own failures that had slowly been settling in between his thoughts.

"I used to be... But, they all broke me."

Bucky turned his head, feeling the gentle press of ocean breeze caress against his cheek.

"Who did?"

"The ones I couldn't save."

Bucky's breath caught in his throat. He knew Steve was carrying that weight on his shoulders, could see the way they hunched down, aching and struggling to find inner determination to stand up and face the harsh world head on.

It broke him.

"Those people weren't for you to save, Steve."

"I wasn't just gonna give up on them."

Steve's voice raised higher, an inconsistent echo against the crashing of the waves and emotions pouring out between them.

"You can't give hope to someone that forgot what it felt like, forgot what it looked like, Steve...you can't force hope down someone's throat when they stop believing."

Bucky needed Steve to realize this. He needed him to understand. He needed him to know the dark and empty void that was within himself, the same void that Bucky assumed was in all of those lost souls on Steve's Couldn't Save List.

"Is that what is gonna happen to you? Did you forget?"

Steve's eyes pleaded into Bucky's, a desperation angling towards confusion and a yearning to understand.

Bucky stared out at the water, refusing to acknowledge his long-since-forgotten hope that bled out from his veins so many months ago. In all actuality, Bucky lost so much more than hope that night in the hospital...knees buckling and digging sharply into that dingey tiled floor, with some sweating, anxious doctor telling him they couldn't save his kid. 

He fucking lost everything.

"You know, I can't remember the important days anymore."

That thought wasn't supposed to slip out. Bucky bit down on the side of his cheek, viciously reprimanding himself for letting out more than he ever wanted. 

"What do you mean?"

Steve's voice hinted with only curiosity. And, for the life of Bucky, he couldn't tell why that comforted him entirely. 

"You know how some people can pull up some random Monday from six years ago and tell you all about it? I can't do that anymore."

Bucky refused to pull his gaze away from the water, petrified to see the look on Steve's face...terrified that he would look at him and see the vast emptiness hidden inside of Bucky's head, haunted by that very confession. 

Bucky really had lost everything. The way his daughter's eyes lit up when she was excited. The way her hair twirled and knotted ontop of itself when she crawled into his bed in the early morning hours. The way he smile could warm the coldest winter days. The way her nose crinkled up like his when she fell over laughing. The way she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek when he would pick her up from school. The way she held his entire world in her tiny little hands...

And...he couldn't fucking remember it anymore. He couldn't remember her face anymore. He couldn't remember the sound of her voice anymore. Fuck, he couldn't even remember the way she smelled. 

"You remember the moments, not the days."

"What if I'm losing those, too?"

Fuck, he needed Steve to understand. 

"Sometimes, when we hold on too tightly, that's when you start to lose so easily."

Maybe Steve was right. Maybe he was desperately grasping at the memories...he was fumbling so much and they were slipping through his fingertips. _I don't know. Why can't they just stay? Why couldn't she just stay?!_

_You know I can't answer that, Buck._

_I just want her back, Connie._

_...I do too._

The waves crashed over themselves, breaking into the silence that had, once again, nestled in between them.


	16. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of these two talking and being stubborn and arguing.

"You never told me why you kept coming here." 

Steve hadn't fully turned to face Bucky, but since there was nobody else on the beach in the middle of the night, and Bucky was sure Steve had resorted to talking to himself just yet, he sighed, knowing they were going to get deeper into their personal darkness than he ever intended. 

"Pretty sure you can figure that out, by now."

_And, if you can't...well, tough shit._

"Initially, yeah, sure. But, even still? All these nights? All these weeks, these past few months? Nothing has changed?"

"Weren't you the one talking about grief and no set time or whatever?"

Bucky really didn't want to get into this. Not now, not ever. He just wanted it all to go away.

"I just meant...do you...still...I mean..."

Steve waved his hand out in front of them, again, leaving what he couldn't really speak left to the hand gesture. 

"Still wanna off myself? Throw myself in the water and let it drown me, so I don't have to remember anything anymore?"

_That's one way to get right to it._

"Uhm, yeah. That."

"It's really important to you, huh?"

Bucky, on a normal day, maybe a few years ago, probably wouldn't have laughed like he just did, but...well, he's not that guy anymore. 

"What?"

"Knowing that you helped each person as much as you could."

Steve's lips tightened, forming such a straight line, that, for a moment, Bucky had difficulty imagining the curve they could sometimes make when Bucky made some crass comment and Steve couldn't help the smirk from forming. 

Bucky sighed, his eyes dropping down to where his shoes dug into the sand. He dug into the sand around them with a sliver of washed up driftwood, digging holes and tracing non-descript lines into the surface.

"I guess this was the only place that didn't make me think this all was happening. When I had to...I don't know...just be away from everything back then...this was the first place that popped up in my head...that didn't make me wanna run as far away from everything..."

The silence stretched between them. Bucky's nerves had frayed from the exposure of having to dig up that morsel of truth and spill it across the sand before him and Steve. He could feel the tingling, the familiarity of a previous fight looming, brewing beneath his tongue, struggling to find the willpower to keep the word vomit at bay. 

"Why do you do this to yourself?"

"What do you mean?"

"Night after night, listening to all this? Doesn't it get to you? All the bad shit people have to go through? Can you really still believe there's still good out there?"

"Are we really gonna have this fight, again?"

_Oh, we sure as shit are!_

Steve sighed, shoulders slouching enough that Bucky could see it even in the mucky light still dragging it's way from rising up past the horizon.

"I have to believe it."

"Why? For you?"

"For them."

"What have they ever done for you? Why do they deserve so much of you when you get nothing in return?"

Bucky wasn't even trying to hold back the snarl his words made.

"That's not the point of all of this."

"Then, please. Just tell me what is the point. And not with some bullshit one liner that sounds great when you tell the whole story back one day, but it doesn't actually answer one fucking thing I've been asking you."

"Because...because..."

Steve's voice was becoming higher in pitch and frustration as the tense seconds ticked by.

"Because...because...what? What?! What is it?" Bucky stared over at Steve, visibly shaking as he let his emotions rush through his words.

"Because...I still remember what it's like to lose everything, okay? To have your entire world ripped out from your fucking hands and you're just left there, alone, empty, just trying to figure it out...trying to remember how to fucking breathe...and finding yourself standing up to your chest in the fucking ocean, in the middle of fucking February, but you can't even feel it. Because you can't feel anything anymore. So, you just keep drinking and drinking and hoping, god, you're damn near begging, for something...just something...to come along and fucking end it all already, because...because...you can't find the fucking meaning anymore. That stupid bullshit meaning everyone says is behind everything, all the good shit and the bad shit? Everything has a purpose and we're supposed to figure it out and try to make sense of it somehow."

Steve stopped, breaths inhaling and exhaling sharply, quickly. His eyes stared over at Bucky, unfocused and pleading. 

"Because, I remember what it's like to lose that meaning, and I'll be damned if I let someone else lose theirs." Steve's voice almost whispering his final statement to Bucky.

"What if there really is no meaning, and just bad shit happens? What if I can't find my meaning?"

Bucky's eyes were the ones pleading, now.

"Maybe it's just really good at hide and seek."

Steve softly smirked at Bucky, focus shifting back in to the deep blue of them. He turned back out to face the ocean, and they both let themselves settle back in to their routine of easy silence.

\----------------------------------------

The beach was empty the next night, by the time Bucky managed to make his way there. His head ached from the rush of cheap booze, and his nerves were damn near fried away. His thoughts had raced him all the way to the water, and Bucky's body was tired from this neverending race against them. He was so tired.

The water licked across his bared toes. His socks abandoned into the sand behind him, resting somewhere beside his shoes, a small pile against the small pile of discarded winter layers. The nerves in his body tensed, shivering violently beneath his skin. The Atlantic never warmed, regardless of the season. He forced his legs to move, press further into the sinking sand beneath his feet, let the water rush against his ankles, his shins, his knees. The denim of his jeans soaked in the salt water, pulling him further into the invite of the abyss around him. 

With one deep inhale, he slammed his eyes closed, falling backwards against the crashing tides, collapsing down into the freezing depth without a second thought. His mind screamed, begging for relief from the artic chill that was now rushing in all around him. The press of the water muffled the world around him.

He just wanted quiet. 

_Please, don't do this._

The air still trapped inside of his lungs turned his body into a buoy, rising him to the surface, no matter how much he clung to the slipping sand between his fingers. 

_Please. Please, don't go._

The night air crashed against his wet skin, cooling him down and through his bones, icing down along his spine. He leaned back, letting his toes poke through the water as he floated along the choppy surface, waves lapping and crashing around him. His body bobbed and dipped along with them. His jaw clenched, his own stubborn refusal to let his teeth chatter.

He opened his eyes, staring blankly towards the sky above him. Stars flickered feebled attempts of hope, dreams that will never come true, lies sparkling amongst the darkness. 

_Why do you want to leave? There's still so much left here._

He just wanted quiet.

The water had started to settle into the pores of his skin, piercing through the fibers of what he had left on for clothing. Hypothermia can set in after fifteen minutes. He knew he had at least seven more before the effects really start.

_Why are you doing this?_

His eyes felt droopy, wanting to close. He refused. He wanted to watch the world slip into a watery darkness around him. His muscles ached, protesting, begging for warmth to keep his blood moving inside of him. He only allowed the waves to keep him afloat. He could feel his lungs searching, stretching for more air, his body desperate for something it knew it needed. Anything.

_Please! Please, this isn't what you want._

Isn't it, though? A way out? Some sense of calm? Some sense of relief?! Even a simple fucking moment of peace?! Just, some quiet. His mind was too loud, too chaotic, just...too much. All the damn fucking time.

_I promise I'll keep to myself. Just please, come out of the water. Please!_

His tired body finally giving out, letting the last memory he treasured to rise up behind his closing eyelids like a flickering old reel on a rusty movie projector.

_Tiny feet dug into the sand, kicking up sand as they ran across the width of the beach. Just at the shoreline, those tiny feet froze in place. A starfish washed up on shore, stilled, unmoving._

_"Daddy!!"_

_Bucky comes running over, breathless from worry as he crouched down beside his daughter._

_"What is it? What's the matter?!"_

_Damp tendrils of matching same brown hair dangled over her face as the same blue gray eyes swam with tears._

_"Daddy, what's wrong with him?"_

_Bucky reached down, lifting the starfish into his hands. Keeping his hands cupped, he walked the few steps to the water, submerging the starfish within his hands underneath the water's surface. His daughter pressed in closely to his shoulder, tiny fingers gripping at his skin as she waited, watching, hoping._

_The starfish began to wiggle it's legs, slowly coming back from the edges of wherever it had been. The tiny gasp from his daughter echoed in Bucky's ear._

_"See, baby? It just needed a little help to get back home."_

_He uncupped his hands and let the starfish float away from them both. She watched in awe as the starfish faded from their view. She leaned down, resting her head on his shoulder._

_"Daddy?"_

_"Yeah, baby?"_

_"I wanna be a starfish when I grow up."_

_"Where will you live?"_

_"Right here. In the waves."_

_"What about your mom and I? Won't we miss you?"_

_"You can come visit me every day."_

_"But, what if I can't swim in the waves to get to you?"_

_"You can swim, Daddy."_

_"Not like a starfish."_

_She stands up and grabs his hand._

_"Let me show you."_

_They walk hand in hand into the water, up to his knees and to her waist. She spins them around so they are facing the beach._

_"Put your arms out like this."_

_She spreads both her arms out by her side. He watches with a smile and does the same._

_"Now, fall back."_

_"Fall back?"_

_"Don't worry, Daddy...the waves will catch you. You don't have to be scared."_

_He looked down at her and smiled._

_"Okay, ready? One, two, three!"_

_They both fall backwards into water, splashing. They float on the water's surface, bouncing with current as the waves roll in underneath them._

_"See? The waves won't hurt you. And they'll help you get to me whenever you miss me."_

_He smiles watching her as she swings her arms and legs back and forth in the shallow water, making snow angels almost, smiling up at the sky._

_He could live in this moment forever._

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think.


End file.
